November 4, 2017 - Leave a Response

A rolling stone gathers no


But does it fall

To pieces?

And though it can’t help falling,

Does it long

For moss?



October 28, 2017 - Leave a Response

How can I know you
when I don’t even know me?
When I can’t plumb the depths of my mind,
when my heart is a labyrinth
that shifts as I delve,
grows deeper as I dive,
when mine is a mystery,
how can I know yours?
I can only explore.

A Brief History of Love

October 22, 2017 - Leave a Response

We’ve come a long way
From single cells splitting,
From the first flirting
Of accidentally shared DNA.

When those first organelles were captured
And lived inside of us,
It was still just a hint of the
Intimacy to come.

Is the new way of sharing,
Expressed through bodies
And minds,

But still there’s division,
Still that splitting,
Still more barriers
And boundaries,
To breach,
Until we reailze the
Perfect union
We’ve been wanting
But resisting,
Playing with,
Struggling with, and


September 24, 2017 - Leave a Response

We are building sandcastles

for a little while.

Don’t worry too much

about perfection.

Even the monk

September 24, 2017 - Leave a Response

Even the monk has to climb

to his cave,

plan his path,

pack his sack.

Even the monk, when his foot slips,

has to catch himself

as he falls over the edge.

The strawberry

clinging to the cliffside

will not be sweet

without the rush of adrenaline

that catches the vine

on the way down.



October 13, 2014 - Leave a Response

What is it like to be
a butterfly-to-be
struggling to break free
of the caterpillary
wrappings around me?

Sitting by a brook, 2.0

August 4, 2011 - Leave a Response

Water rushing ever down,

gurgling, hushing every sound,

flowing under and around

root, bank, boulder, and stone,

Soaking moss and swirling sand

sculpting now, an unseen hand,

this frozen quartz and feldspar Land

of stuckness I call home.

Trees fight up to fusion’s rays

breathing air-shroud, round them lays,

until their leaves, in darker days,

are drawn back to their ground.

Dust of stars the planets’ nest

rock-melt midst the void compressed

world, from dust to dust, coalesced

and spinning, ever round.

By this rushing brook alone

where atoms gathered, boiled and blown

cling now, stuck stuff, still as stone,

I breathe the flood of sound.


June 27, 2010 - One Response

Luke at Bondcliff

Like the ruin of some ancient fortress, Bondcliff rises from the heart of the Pemigewasset Wilderness in New Hampshire.

Luke at Bondcliff

The view from the top of the cliffs (4,265 ft.) is awesome:  360 degrees of wild mountains.   It was nine miles in to Bondcliff, about 2,500 vertical feet.  It was two more miles to Guyot campsite, over the 4,698 foot summit of Mt. Bond.

We were beat.

Day two, we scrapped our plans for Franconia Ridge and hiked fourteen miles out along Franconia Brook instead.  It was a nice time with my son.

“When you have worn out your shoes, the strength of the shoe leather has passed into the fiber of your body…he is the richest man who pays the largest debt to his shoemaker.”


(Thanks to Dave at Hike the Whites for the inspiration to hike to the cliffs.)

Last Stand

June 11, 2010 - Leave a Response

He stood his ground.  Listening to his own labored breathing against the background of the rushing wind above him.  His back was to the drying lake.  His lungs hurt.  His side hurt.  Wow… did it hurt.

He looked down at his bloody hand, then up again at the horde closing in silently around him.  He raised his lance.  It had enough charge left for one last pulse.

They stopped, hesitated before the final charge.

His fingers flexed on the handle.  He watched the sky above fading, it was already dark blue.  His breath was short now in the thinning air.  The sun was hot on his stinging, wet  face.  He tried to wipe the blood and sweat from his eyes with what was left of his left arm.

The sun was bright.  He though about his family, remembered his wife’s smile, the laughter of his kids, their eyes.  He thought of people, milling, socializing, loving each other, growing.  He thought of history.  He chuckled to himself.  He thought of the Romans in their silly helmets, and Hitler.  He thought of Great Britain, America, of empires, of politicians.  Then he thought of money, the farmer’s market, fresh tomatoes, working in the garden, flowers.  Then he thought of his daughter, clouds and the blue sky behind her, the blue sky that even now was blowing away.

So it all comes down to this, he thought.  He laughed inside.  Imagine being the last human being.  Hard to believe it.

He scanned the gray line of soldiers as they raised their weapons.

He held out his lance, roaring as he squeezed the trigger.

There was a bright flash of light and pain.

The burden-mask

June 11, 2010 - One Response

I extricate myself

from the burden-mask

I was always carving,

but never finishing, 

though always wearing,

the one that was always gnawing,

always heavy,

and it falls to the ground

with a thud.