I wanted to post a new poem here today and discovered the new wordpress block editor format. I used it and I loathed it. I was like a monkey bashing around on a computer.

This afternoon I discovered the ‘classic editor,’ and I hope they continue to offer the choice. If I am forced to use the new block editor for my poetry I am gone.

What about you, have you gotten used to it? Maybe you are stuck in the classic mode as well.

This is how I feel about it.

  • Image by Schwoaze from Pixabay

The Art of Being

All this conditioning
This mental slavery
With its righteous beliefs
And rigid opinions
Obscures the natural light within
From pouring forth into the world

In this rather sorry state
Everything about us is functional
And almost robotic
There is no art of being
No inner beauty or radiance

A great sadness must arise
An inner intuition, a hunch,
That there is something more
It doesn’t matter what you call it

But it sets off a cascade
A movement from within
And an unravelling of the knots
That bind us to ourselves
A cleansing of the psyche
A great detoxification

Oh! this is the beauty of it all
The gradual unfolding of the wings
The waking up of the sleeping one
Don’t be in such a hurry
To get to the destination
There is no destination
Only mystery and falling
Into the unknown

This is the art of being.

Photo by Javardh on Unsplash

New Mexico

We have fallen in love
With enchantment itself
When we set foot
In New Mexico
It was like returning home
For both of us
We saw it in the sky
As the afternoon clouds gathered
To rain love on the dry earth
And felt it underfoot
On the dusty winding trails
It resounded in the curved walls
Of deep orange adobe
And in the very essence of all things
That are born and die there
We saw the rest of our weary days
Spent painting, writing, laughing, walking
Making music
And walking the two dogs
Who would find us
Such a longing has come upon us
For this aloneness
Just kicking around the desert
As the light fades

Make it so…


The Mystic Within

There is a mystic within you

They may be hidden deep inside
Covered over by layers of concrete and mortar

There is a wild one
Who does not measure things
In the ways of modern man

Don’t think our ancestors died long ago
Oh no
They live inside us

We locked up the wild man and woman
Fearing they were base and primitive
But it is the jailer himself
Who is in prison

This wildness I speak of is our poetry
Our dance and our longing
It is our search for the deepest love

It is that which truly sustains us
And gives life to this bag of bones and fluid

Whatever else you do with this precious life
Don’t abandon your inner wild one
You don’t have to run naked in the street
All you have to do is follow
Your deepest yearning

And be true to your heart.

the greatest poem never seen

imagine that the greatest works of art
have never been seen
by anyone beyond the artist

that poem you wrote and never showed anyone
the story that stayed in your head
or the song you played for no one but god

these are the unsung heroes of life

not everything has to be seen
and shared
sold and scrutinized

there was a film i saw recently
of a poet who lived a regular life
his daily poems were just an expression
of life
he was not seeking fame or fortune
or striving to be read
in fact his book of poems
was destroyed by the dog
and no one had read them

some art exists for its own sake
it is all consciousness expressing itself
through form
and it doesn’t care abut fame or readership

i have often said
some of my best songs have never
been heard by anyone.

creativity is an impulse not a choice

even if it draws no money
or no-one even sees it
if it brings no fame
or even if it brings misery
serve it anyway.
creativity, your art,
is an impulse sent by the divine
it is the divine impulse itself
manifesting into consciousness
for the sheer joy of it. 
no other reason is necessary.

true art is not a choice
but a necessity,
a demand, and to not serve it
might be the worst thing
you ever did.

so i say, ‘turn it all into art…
all the pain, the joy
the suffering, the anger
and even the fear.
let it all become the raw material
of your creativity.’

that is the only true prayer necessary
and that is how we serve the divine.
Kavi in the Old Town

richer than money

your heart 
is the only wealth
that really matters

a rich man
with a cold heart
is a poor man
with money

but a poor man
with a warm heart
is rich

we cannot live
by money alone
yet it consumes us all

the artist who longs to paint
the musician who must play
and the writer scribbling in the cafe
all compromised by this monster
called necessity

‘i saw a youtube video about a guy who 
had come out of prison after doing time for drugs.
he couldn’t get back into society, couldn’t get an apartment 
or a job and was shunned by people.
So he said ‘fuck it,’ and decided to live in a tent and play his guitar, 
get whatever money he could from busking
and just do what he loves…his music.’

i have a lot of respect for that guy.