Altar of Your Life

When the fire of love burns in your heart,

everything you say leads you on the path.

Sit beside that fire.

Be warmed by it.

Let it burn away the questions.

Let that fire be the center of the altar of your life,

the middle of the compass,

just like that.

Listen to it as it

reminds you 

Who you are,

Where you come from,

Where you are going.

Listen to it as it reminds you

of your Self.

Again and again, return to it 

in shadowy nights—when you forget, 

let it ignite you with the secrets of your soul.


Be the hearth of your own desire.

Let the flames be fanned by your witnessing breath. 

Disappear into the molten smolder of your unfolding,

and be reborn—

For it was only ever your own heart

begging for itself.

The Whisperings

There are so many secrets inside of you.

Place your ear on the creek bed of your being

and rest there, stay there. 

The secrets will swell to meet you and 

soak the base of your listening like the

deep river goddess

who cannot be stopped.

It’s like this: Once you know the sound of your whisperings,

you’ll listen for nothing else.   

Spinning Gold

Take your pains— 

your questions, your aggravations,

your impossible yearnings.

Rest them on an altar of stars inside your chest. 

Relinquish yourself from having to do anything.

Curl up on the ground somewhere close and,

giving it all away again,

sing, cry, rest. 

Just To Be, and To Be Still

Just to be,

and to be still.

No need to even pray for

all prayers are already woven into my blood.

My prayers for my son—

for the women, for the Earth,

for my own growing soul—

just to be,

and to be still—

Let the prayers travel the soundscape of before life, after life, and life itself,

just to be,

and to be still—

the strongest prayer there is, 

the need to pray dissolving,

as all is already-said in stillness, and already is. 

My prayers for my son

are your prayers for your sons,

and your daughters,

and your family, your life,

the God-given waters. 

My prayers are your prayers 

and when I pray, your prayers are sung—

the stillness within all of us,

a prayer for each ones life—

holy and inevitable—

just to be, and to be still. 

The Light Beam of Your Love

I drop my robes at your door—

the robes of Devotee,

of She-Who-Is-Trying,

of Eternal Seamstress

and all my other slow and hurried selves.

In my nakedness 

you ravage me—

leave me with nothing but 


with the golden quivering body of

My very Self.

Thank You



is a swimming in love,

like doing the backstroke in a bird bath

and song is drenching your soul full with light.


Thank you for this chance to dance and

pray and sing.

Thank you for this chance

to be.

Message from the Kaleidoscope

The road erupts into a field of daisies. 

Mailboxes pull themselves out of the ground and begin to dance.

The dogs join them as their leashes turn into circling glittering smoke—

(their owners into frozen statues of disbelief).

Blades of grass become epic green things dancing in the wind,

caterpillars into butterflies, 

fish into birds,

fetus into child,

rain into harvest,

day into night—

and the humans, perplexed only for a moment before the corners of their mouths float upward, stretched well beyond their face, taken by smiles that melt them entirely—

turn into crescent moons.

This life is a wild, sacred thing.

What do we need—to get it?

Destiny is a Malleable Thing

Destiny is a malleable thing 

that does not interest me much.

Take me deeper to the kiss that does not end.

Take me through the spiral of your tongue,

to the vast landscape of your heart where you

and I and all living things merge into ancient song—

where destiny is nothing more but a question that sparks 

the dance, and then a dip in Your arms,

where our hearts, like wildfire,

burn, burn, burn.

Death of an Artist

Today, in broad daylight—

and again at 5pm.

My son’s breath as he naps,

crows resting in the treetops,

a floating spider weaving its silky web—

These are the things that kill me.

Mortal Mother

I am a tiny flame in the house of love,

and I am the house of love itself.

Everything I see, I am

Everything I am, I see. 

What a Wonder

What a wonder—

we can lay on the ground,

breathe in the grass,

bask in the smell of life—

That we can do these things,

know these things,

at all. 

God Was Singing All Along

I don’t want to be so old 

that I’m dead when I finally figure it out:

God was singing to me all along—

in waves crashing on my toes,

in the stray dog who comes to say hello like a happy trumpet,

in the tiny ants and their endeavors on my skin,

in the magic of the seashells, how can they be?

in the breeze that turns the curtain into fabled cotton waves—

I don’t want to be so old 

that I’m dead when I finally figure it out:

God was singing to me

all along.

Notes on Homecoming

The silent dynasty of the heart—speaks.

The hearing aid for humans is devotion.

The heart of devotion is pure and simple listening.

The silent dynasty of the heart—


Swimming in the heavens of

my own seawater. The fish of

my own belly. God’s laughter like

sun drops. Warm raindrops like

love. Being—and being within

stretching out in the house of

Love, kissing the ground, mouth

on the ground, kiss,



Thank you God for you.

Thank you God for me.

Thank you God for all you have given,

and for all you have taken.