the mission

To provide a forum for the intersection of spirit and art - a place to share what creations we must manifest to continue living in a meaningful way.


I'm open to what develops here - poetry, fiction, non-fiction, images, videos, quotes, insight - mainly looking at this blog as a record or shared diary in a spirit of playfulness and inspiration....mental froth, mind's eye materialization, and life songs lost and found.

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Thursday, August 29, 2013

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

Monday, April 22, 2013

Tuesday, April 16, 2013

archetypes i relate to


Baby born to us.
Makes me want to cry and then
makes me want to laugh.

Sunday, April 7, 2013

pre-baby haiku

The body, a shell
that could sleep through the whole day;
husk where work passed through.

I long for ocean, 
the patterns of wind on
waves infinitely.

Coffee gurgle time,
that song stirs up something good.
Extravagant sips.

The taste of coffee,
electric, warm, liquid gold,
makes life good again.

I have a habit
of taking time to mellow.
Sanity follows.

Kayak charging through,
moving with sun and currents;
finally peaceful. 

Love is the key to 
the start and the center of 
health in the body.

Suns sing from my throat. 
Galaxies and I write tunes. 
Venue: Space. Sold out. 

Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Afternoon time spent
culling unwanted things, thoughts
preparing warmth, peace.

Satisfaction breathes
a cat who was unforeseen
chest held high, purring.

Wander aimlessly,
stress drops off your troubled mind
you stand calm, ready.

Aysha’s pretty skin,
she triumphs with every grin,
freckled, beautiful.

The sun is stronger
than my shadow of a doubt;
seeds become flowers.

Stationary me
has time to notice birds, trees,
refine peaceful.

Monday, February 11, 2013

Recent Haiku

Coffee sips pleasant.
Before my eyes, fire-pit rocks
rained on, not minding.

Birds fill our backyard,
free from the cage, if only
they would do yard-work.

Was that a haiku
or am I drunk on sake?
Only the moon knows.

Outside, angry storm.
Arms hold dogs, brothers, sisters
closer than danger. 

House of friends laughing,
greasy meat picked off bones,
teeth flashing jewels. 

Give meaning to words
with simple parameters;
the profundity.  

Inspiration girl
speaks in Haiku like our dreams, 
happily sips sake.

Friday, December 28, 2012

hot deck serenade

Friday, October 12, 2012

Blazing Paddles


Ode to my beer sampler at Deschutes Brewery, Portland, Oregon.

Red Wheat: She had a more bitter beer on her lips than I had expected.  She took my breath away and sent it on a bus on a microbrewery tour through Portland. “Why can’t I go too?” I blurted, envious of my own breath. Redheads have always had an easy way with me and her untraditional smoothness made me forget we were sinking even deeper.  As her wheat-colored hair whipped my face, I drank thirstily of her oral cavity. “I’m gonna want a tip,” she said like a sweaty waitress. “Just the tip?” I interpreted incorrectly. She finished me. 

Whiskey Coleman Oak-aged Stout: I was shocked by the taste, locked into curiosity, nay, bewilderment.  The beer knocked on the door of my tongue, ran away when I answered,  knocked a second time with some mustard-covered juggernaut. My house, self-assured knower of basic ales, unprofessional but not inexperienced finally stuttered, “Come on in” and had to redesign it’s kitchen for the guest. “...‘nother whiskey shot,” the beer stated clearly. A virgin to whiskey I gulped again and wondered what prophylactic could protect me as Stout gushed through the windows. 

Genevrier Wit:  Sipping this beer is to lay down in a grass field in the summer with a thin-lipped woman who kisses quickly. Dust remembered from too good a place. A short shower, a subtle power. A tease of breeze on a humid day.  All this to enjoy between good friends. 

Strong Man NWPA:  “Is this beer?” I wondered at first.  So much like...which juice? Papaya? Perhaps. Another sip. The first tongue touch is citrus but the mid and after taste...wait, no....definitely grapefruit juice. A slappy fella.  Rumination: Old Tropical.  Faces: the sky.  Drink: undrownable, thinkable, more than beer. 

Chainbreaker: Full disclosure demanded, this beer broke through my mouths’ walls speaking, “Tell all, tell all!”  A conversationalist, interogatting, IPA. “Why are beer and urine cousins?” “Well, I do remember urine after drinking this beer......and drinking of course leads to urination. If a ‘coner’ is a boner for your cousin this beer has a stiffy as thorough as a bladder  infection. Not bad, mind you. 

Nitro Obsidian Stout: if it was an orgy, I would save you, German Lady, for last.  A truely dark brunette babe with hips I have yet to touch. Take me to your delicious tavern and turn out the lights. After a little, I want alot.  Like to be stuck underground with you after apocalypse. Black out my liver. Midnight my mind. I forget coffee. You delete chocolate. Only you.  I welcome winter.

C.I.A. Dave

Day 2, Coffee: The CIA man in his 50’s style Panama hat and aviator sunglasses called himself, “Dave.” He called his coffee, “Doris” and asked the same barista for her each morning as a matter of course. The fan rotated and it seemed to scatter coffee grounds and raw sugar dust into the air. 0800 and I was already sweating. 

The CIA Dave stared quickly at me with beady steel eyes then quipped to the bar, “Make Doris strong today, Muchacho, I’m taking her to Portland.” For a moment I felt bad that Doris, or anyone for that matter, had to travel in someone’s bladder. Then again, maybe it was a first class bladder and Doris was a happily coupled woman. The more I thought about Doris, the more I wondered if my coffee wasn’t too sweet, too watery, too unfeminine. 

I lifted myself to the bar and said more boldly than I had said anything, in a voice reminicent of my puberty but amplified, “ I’ll have Doris too, please.” 

Blank stare from the server. I could feel CIA Dave’s eyes on my back, heard a sound like a hand reaching for a gun. The fan came to a stop.  I silently ‘sharted.’

My chin hit the bar and I broke a tooth or two.  Warm blood pooled in the front of my mouth. CIA Dave held my head to the bar by my hair. “Is that enough Doris for ya, punk? Maybe you want a shot?” He punched me in the kidney and it crippled me, that is to say, my legs buckled. I tried to keep myself up by holding onto the barstool but I hit the floor. The gun pointed at me. “Maybe that shot wasn’t strong enough? Maybe you want another?”

Thursday, September 20, 2012

black butte porter

atop your muddy heights
the view is clear
a gentle kick
and i remember the caramel summer
when, after a long day
birds fly home to warm nests
and the winds turn
tumbling down your slopes
the waking valleys

wild black

sticks and earth
inside the cave shade retreat
all around the afternoon swelter
buzzing insects
and the creaking of reaching bamboo
steeped gifts
from the old tea trees
defiant and
leafing in the sunlight
servants to the generations

Monday, September 17, 2012

signs of portland

Friday, August 24, 2012

nature perfect

Saturday, April 14, 2012

irish fiddle 'n guitar

scary beautiful pipes

Friday, April 6, 2012

uillean pipes and slipjigs

...have been appreciating the mastery of irish music of late....

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Saturday, January 21, 2012

crazy talk

Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Walk off the earth

Currently going viral:

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

hut in the woods

From early days I have been at odds with the world;
my instinctive love is hills and mountains.
By mischance I fell into the dusty net
And was thirteen years away from home.
The migrant bird longs for its native grove.
The fish in the pond recalls its former depths.
Now I have cleared some land to the south of town,
Simplicity intact, I have returned to the farm.
The land I own amounts to a couple of acres
The thatched-roof house has four or five rooms.
Elms and willows shade the eaves in back,
Peach and plum stretch out before the hall.
Distant villages are lost in haze,
Above the house smoke hangs in the air.
A dog is barking somewhere in a hidden lane,
A cock crows from the top of a mulberry tree.
My home remains unsoiled by worldly dust
Within bare rooms I have peace of mind.
For long I was a prisoner in a cage
And now I have my freedom back again.
      ~ T'ao Ch'ien (365-427)

Thursday, December 29, 2011

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