nothing and everything



nothing and everything

arrives unexpected


listen listen


and I hear the rising of my own story

surfacing for protection

who am I then?

the sum of my parts

or who I am becoming?


this aching is an intention

radiating in waves

the energy

a voluntary take over

I can feel it everywhere

my sex, my stomach, my bottom lip

inundated I feel I am sinking


drenched in the running colors

I wade to shore


the more I surrender

the more transparent I’m becoming



I hear


the earth is weeping


22 responses

  1. bouncing questions …



    our memories


    our personal, social

    identities ?



    our bodies are merely

    the house, shell

    temple ?



    we’re just packages


    the content ?


  2. hey poetfriend….you know Jane Mead. This poem, especially that “listen listen” part struck me as very jane mead. especially the mead poem here…great balance here between visible and invisible:

    Concerning That Prayer I Cannot Make
    by Jane Mead

    Jesus, I am cruelly lonely
    and I do not know what I have done
    not do I suspect that you will answer me

    and, what is more, I have spent
    these bare months bargaining
    with my soul as if I could make her
    promise to love me when now it seems
    that what I meant when I said ‘soul’
    was that the river reflects
    the railway bridge just as the sky
    says it should – it speaks that language.

    I do not know who you are.

    I come here every day
    to be beneath this bridge,
    to sit beside this river,
    so I must have seen the way
    the clouds just slide
    under the rusty arch –
    without snagging on the bolts,
    how they are borne along on the dark water –
    I must have noticed their fluent speed
    and also how that tattered blue T-shirt
    remains snagged on the crown
    of the mostly sunk dead tree
    despite the current’s constant pulling.
    Yes somewhere in my mind there must
    be the image of a sky blue T-shirt, caught,
    and the white islands of ice flying by
    and the light clouds flying slowly
    under the bridge, though today the river’s
    fully melted. I must have seen.

    But I did not see.

    I am not equal to my longing.
    Somewhere there should be a place
    the exact shape of my emptiness –
    there should be a place
    responsible for taking one back.
    The river, of course, has no mercy –
    it just lifts the dead fish
    toward the sea.

    Of course, of course.

    What I meant when I said ‘soul’
    was that there should be a place.

    On the far bank the warehouse lights
    blink red, then green, and all the yellow
    machines with their rusted scoops and lifts
    sit under a thin layer of sunny frost.

    And look –
    my own palm –
    there, slowly rocking.
    It is my pale palm –
    palm where a black pebble
    is turning and turning.

    Listen –
    all you bare trees
    piles of twigs
    red and green lights flashing
    muddy bottle shards
    shoe half buried – listen

    listen, I am holy.


  3. what an elegant and ardent poem this is. another lyrical testament to your supremely supple and cultivated imagination. tony


  4. — Everything written symbols can say has already passed by. They are like tracks left by animals. That is why the masters of meditation refused to accept that writings are final. The aim is to reach true being by means of those tracks, those letters, those signs – but reality itself is not a sign, and it leaves no tracks. It doesn’t come to us by way of letters or words. We can go toward “it”, by following those words and letters back to what they came from. But so long as we are preoccupied with symbols, theories and opinions, we will fail to reach the principle.
    — But when we give up symbols and opinions, aren’t we left in the utter nothingness of being?
    — Yes.

    KIMURA KYUHO, Kenjutsu Fushigi Hen
    [On the Mysteries of Swordsmanship],


    • momentary wind storm on the high plateau
      the air is clearing as we look over the edge
      to see the flames of a dry grass fire
      exploding seeds in the valley below
      no smoke reaches us

      only gathering clouds

      we all stand there in
      the potential of rain

      Thank you Geo. I enjoyed the above passage immensely. I’ve been considering something similar, in my own way, in my next post.


    • Thank you Teri, we do stand on sacred ground…being obscured by too much “knowing”. Sometimes I find this journey overwhelming. I’m glad and grateful to be able to express this amongst friends. xxoo


    • Hello Forty…interesting question. Poetry is literally an easier way to express myself. Both speech and prose have been frustrating for me since my thinking tends to be in layers (?) that superimpose on each other. I revert to poetic speech like a person who stutters, finally getting it out. Oddly, since starting this blog and having more practice, both my speech and prose abilities are improving. I’m not sure why, but perhaps the desire to communicate with focus is the greatest contributor to the process. Glad to meet you!


      • Oh, your reply has sparked a thought for me. Something I read some time ago about stuttering. It said that the speech centres of the brain are the only areas that are not fixed in one spot in all people at birth, they can be in differing areas and on different sides of the brain! The theory was that for stutterers, the speech area settled on both sides of the brain so it’s literally like two sides of the brain arguing over who is in control. You have an amazing awareness of how you work so what a wonderful thing to have come out of your blog for you. Glad to meet you too!


  5. I enjoy your writing, But so far, it’s hard for me to say anything. After hearing or reading a good poem, I withdraw into myself… The poem still reverberates. If I’ve found it on a blog, it is always good if I can just press the button ‘like’. When I first came to WordPress, I didn’t like the ‘like’ button. It seemed so artificial… to press a button to show you liked something… but I’ve learned that sometimes, it works better than trying to say anything.


    • I have my own learning curve with the virtual world as well, Shimon. At times I suspect it s a new frontier and I wonder about my part in it.
      With me as well, there are blogs I follow with respect for what the authors contribute and their words resonate with me…but I find I haven’t the language to say anything. I have no idea why because I also find I can comment immediately on others. I enjoy the mystery of it. It is what it is.
      I do know that it makes me happy when you show up on these pages…!


  6. “drenched in the running colors
    I wade to shore”
    …these lines encapsulate the entire poem for me…the nuances of life come together in the “running colors”…
    thank you for sharing such lovely hope…


    • Hope…. yes Johann, it is my hope to be cognizant while remaining hopeful. It is a delicate balancing for all of us. But a blessing to be in the company of others on this fine line. xxoo


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