Chrysemys picta

I disturb them, 

they know me first, boots squelching mud, winter twig and fern. 

How many pass this way unseeing 

as shell bellies and sun-bathed backs dissolve into empty log-in-river, 

no trace but a ripple now fading. 

I regret my trespass, 

my clumsy unskilled gait. 

Like a child out here, 

so much I don't know 

all feelings 

all scent and sight and sound— 

but thought, what use is thought in a place like this? 

This place is what it is, 

speckled foam passing and passing forever. 

From this promontory overlooking the river, 

I see I am what I am 

more bird and granite, pin oak and painted turtle 

than any law or creed. 

I sit surrounded by web, 

the chickadee chuckling at my predicament. 

He announces my place amidst dead beakrush stalk, 

igneous rock, 

river oak and river oats, sycamore and ground ivy. 

At first, I cannot see the web, and then it’s there, 

all around, sticking to me and I’m caught 

caught in the woven filaments of mind, 

invisible except by awareness' shimmer. 

But I won’t break the web. 

There’s room enough for mind out here. 

I simply let it be, let it shimmer in the wind as I sit, 

silent 

watching ripples and shadow, half light turned soft, 

as my dark reptilian self re-emerges to bask in late day sun. 

  

  

Appalachian Native

Into the Appalachian wilderness,
no rules but the rule of the wild,
no god but the god of presence.

My nest is amidst dead leaves
where-ever I stop for sleep,
wandering all day to feed on nuts,
bitter fruit and sweet mountain waters.

Shedding my shell,
shedding the shackles of all I thought I knew,

here the human creature
sinks back into the soil,
merging into bark texture,
mushroom, green leaf and bird.

Plans rot down,
expectations wear away like riverbanks,
while a mountain of thoughts
      transform
           into trees.
 
 
 

Breathing Towards Birth

Wind,
strong wind,
tell me,

are you
my true nature? –

heart dispersing
like pollen
on the breeze

and every thought
a flutter,
leaves at evening

even my body
this earthen animal thing
bending
unbending
to the currents

as here

invisible
becomes
visible

swelling up,
lungs a balloon,
full bull frog throat,

I am swollen with spirit
and feel as though I might explode

and in the same

moment
of fullness,
tension,
expansion,

the exhale arrives,
emptiness,
space,
a void unfurled.

I am not …
yet I am.

I cannot express
the fullness
of this being-ness
this such-ness.

Impregnated
by presence,
I am a dandelion gone to seed,

each breath
a step
towards birth.

Wind,

strong wind,
tell me,

when my last breath
rejoins
you,

will I finally
be
born?

 
 

Mountain Dao

Occaneechee Mountain, in Hillsborough, NC where I first spoke this poem

Up
     up to the mountain top,
this wild place of pine trees
and hickory oak.

Up
     up to the mountain top,
river valley spread out
from ancient mountain roots.

Wandering path along the ridge
hugs boulders cut by years of wisdom
while wizened trees hold on--
hold to that horizon,
allowing themselves to be bent and turned
where few can go.

Here, there is Grandfather
      and grandchildren,
Here, there is youth and old age,
saplings stretched green in the sun,
in search of wind, soil, light and rain,
six hundred million year old rock weathered by
volcano, glacier, flood and time.

The brown hare hops off into the distance,
leading the way
up
     up to the mountain top
as I leave behind human constructs and thoughts,
arising out of the dark valley
into pure white sun.

Even the salamander is out to
greet this day,
darting this way and that like
a snake's glinted tongue.
He knows the way,
up
    up to the mountain top.

A thousand generations
have passed this way,
and humans
       --almost none,
melting the mind
like snow into mountain,
bent and turned
along the edge of wilderness,
the Way the heart is weathered, 

sharpness smoothed down
by the river of yearning
a soft stone
dissolving
into sediment
leaving behind
soil
and the pure crystal peak
of mountain top being

I will follow and sing,
trusting in the wild ways
stepping closer
moment by moment
up
     up to the mountain top.

Rock Meditation

mountain tops piled with stones in ancient Dartmoor

Lying on the ground,
back curled up to soil,
dead wood, leaves, winter’s dreams.

I rest like snow,
a rock lodged deep,
inert, still, silent yet
full of presence.

I wait here on the ground,
not for anything or anyone
but
for waiting itself,
knowing nothing but

this.

No need for questions
     -- not on the ground.
No need for beliefs
or reasons why, how or where
because I am

simply

lying

on the ground

resting on earth
a billion years in the making of
now.

That is enough
      more than enough
assurance for me here
in this moment,
lying on the ground.