I see a bright crescent
forming like a smile
at the bottom of your
pupil. (This is how pain
condenses to
honey.)

I unwrap the wool from
my body and allow
this thick nectar
to soak
through my skin.

 
This is what Thank You means-
it is when the pores become 
             so wide
that the wind 
can slip through the skin
and tickle the heart.

It is acceptance
with Love.

And it draws our surroundings
closer- the chair, the ocean,
the trees... it brings them
inside.

It holds the atoms in my body
together, and now holds
your atoms
to mine.

I have heard it was said
by them of old time
that the Moon
borrows her light
from the Sun.

But I say
a beauty as great as the Moon’s
inspires a great lover,
and it was this muse
that sparked the Sun’s flame.

The Sun’s sweet ballads
of love and longing
share the Moon
with all of us, and
in that sharing we are

given hope
that we too can find
such a beauty
to ignite us
into existence.

What I most want to occupy
is myself, but this doesn’t mean
I won’t engage with the world.

If I press my palms into yours
and we both lean our chests in,
the bottom tips of our shoulder blades
will curl to the heart.

There is immense suffering in this world,
and I don’t want to add to it
with anger.

Instead let me hold out my arms
in such a way
that you can trust I will
catch you,

and may your leap
be one of beauty
and grace.

 
A leaf lightens 
into gold
and leaps 
from the branch to the sky.

        What whirling what spinning what dancing what joy!

(It is jealousy that clings 
the other leaves to their branches, but only
for so long.)

Autumn knows this secret-
that we are all becoming beautiful
together.

…it is Thank You
and I Love You, it is Joy and it is
Yes! it is the rising sun revealing
a soft pair of hands
sprinkling salt on the snow
covered sidewalk.

 
Loving the sky does not keep me
from falling in love
with the fleeting birds,

and being heartbroken can sometimes be
so beautiful-

     I love every sensation in my body!
     I love every sensation in my body!

I love the tender heaviness of despair.
I love it when my kidneys puff up with hope.

I place my heart 
under the vice grip
of beauty 
and silently pray
to be shattered

and open 
like the wind, never grasping
but lightly brushing my fingers
through all things.

I love my own sadness 
as each fleeting bird 
flies away.

 
The bottom half folds into the stem the way
some tongues do, cupping a soft streak 
of shadow. 

The top half glistens with sparkle 
and subtle sun glaze. It bends forward 
to a slightly drooping tip. Beneath it 
hangs a bold sphere 
of dew;       

(
                  It could be any 
              blade of grass, but its not 
                         just any 
                     blade of grass,                its this 
             blade of grass

 here before me as the sun hovers above the canopy
                   to cheerfully greet
                        this day, this breath,                   this 
             blade of grass

 that through chance or circumstance or something 
                             unknown
             has enchanted me into a beauty
                       so deep
            that even if it could 
                           get any better
) 

all I really want 
is this.

A forehead splits
down the center like a
lightning-struck tree

and swings open
like doors on the
hinges of each ear.

A flock of birds
flies like smoke
from the opening,

and the heart
sings praises
to their wings.

 
You are huddled
against a flower's stamen, naked
and much too cold to smell the fragrance
soon to overtake your world. This void-black 
sky is the outstretched arms of
rose petals, enclosed over you like a domed 
cocoon, fingers meeting high overhead 
and interwoven like strands 
of a grandmother basket.

         **Gasping Amazement!  (sucking in)  ...haaaaaaa

That's the sound that you
and this entire world make
when the sky unravels, at first
almost by accident, but then...

             pollen dances
       in the soft-beamed light
                         falling like a breath

  *heart-melting sigh  (release) ahhhhhhh...

first fragrance
of spring.

What would be left of you
for me
if I no longer wanted
you
to be a something
else?

The
Deeper Love
may not
be able
to mend
a broken
heart,

but
She may
take hold of
your hand
and lead
you down
the cracks.

I tried to be a saint once; it didn’t
work. So now I carry
a pocketful of zippers
when I walk into town.

I lay them on the sidewalk
and pull on their sliders, separating
the concrete to reveal

the sweet mystery of light and sound
that bounces between bamboo
stalks when played upon
by the wind.

This is the faith
found folded inside
the absence
of all things,

existing
not for god
or for man or the angels
but for it’s own
Existence.

It’s what’s left
when loss and confusion
have stripped away the nail
from where the universe
hangs.

Let me touch my
lips to your cheek, so
I may swallow your tears.
Then, maybe
they will enter my bloodstream,
and I can finally feel
your preciousness
with my entire
body.

The gods and saints
never stopped showering us with flowers.

We have just forgotten
how to walk on this earth
lightly
as if every step
pressed into a petal
to release its sweet
fragrance.

What I most want to do tonight
is wrestle the sky, grab a hold
of a good-sized
chunk
and wring it like a
wet rag
for a single drop
of light.

A log cannot jump out of the flame.
So, what good can resistance do
but grant a few extra moments
of intense
burning?

 

                                  God is Love. That's
                                        it! Nothing
                                          special
                                         about It!
                                         No bells
                                     or whistles. No
                                  judgments, anger,
                                           eternal
                                             hell,
                                  j  e  a  l  o  u  s  y
                                          SHAME

                       o
                           r
                                              p
                                              u
                                              n
                                              i
                                              s
                                              h
                                              m
                                              e
                                              n
                                              t.

    (S/He
Just shines
like the Sun) 

Anything else is a bold-faced, underlined, CAP-LOCKED, italicized  
LIE!
           H o w e v e r,
S/He doesm't mind if we use a little word-art (trickery) to make 
He/r sound G R O O V E Y (complicated) enough for you to give 
your attention long enough (ritalin) to hear the sound S/He 
makes during the moment-by-moment lovemaking S/He has with
He/r-Self... (What is the sound of one hand clapping?)...


 

HARE
                     KRISHNA!

           HARE
                                        RAMA!

                     HARE HARE!

                            ॐ
 
                                                                                     Om.

 
Can we be bonded by a faith like this?
where our own existence
is enough? and our faults
seem to vanish
in it's ocean of magnificence
the way a mosquito
seems to vanish
as it dances
across the sun?
 
This here we are
     is the gateway
into a Love
     so abundant
that ripe plums
     weigh their branches
to hover above
     our cupped hands.

I may have reasons for doubt,
but those plums... so deliciously full, so ready
to burst! ...they seem to say
yes.

This time
     let me be open-
no bait, no traps, no clever
schemes, no hooks or ropes...
The moon doesn't try 
to lasso the sun, for she knows
her ropes will burn. Instead
she basks in the light.
     With open arms
I will wait.

This painting before me
is almost perfect- the hair
shows the briskness
of spring, and the eyes
are daunted by the moon.
I have spent many years
on each brushstroke, and yet

I have lost
all faith
in this art.

Now I caress each trail of color
(and even the horse-hair grooves
within the color) until they
melt into rainbows-
rivers of light that slide
down the portrait like rain
on a window glass.
Even the immensity
of this beauty

cannot compare
with the faith
in an empty canvass.

I can hear the river’s call
dancing along the bank.
It is the very sound of Life
as it pours from the heart.

This Stream of Silence
carries no passengers-
no stones, fish, or debris,
only water
flowing.

Yes,
I feel inspired, and yet
the pen rests on the page
in Stillness.

How many ways are there
to say, “I Love You?”

Lightning strikes glacial melt
as it falls over the edge
of a high mountain cliff
and into my open brain.

The water flows through me
and reaches my feet
with force.

The pressure pops
the corks off my toes;
       a continuous flow
       runs through me,
carving passages
and eroding edges
until nothing else
is left-
              nothing else
but the sensation
                     of lightning-struck glacial melt
       at terminal velocity.

This is what gratitude feels like.
This is what gratitude
feels like.

I am truly blessed.

One river of Golden Light
(with no beginning and no end,
but interconnecting like a Celtic mandala)
weaves through itself as a blanket of prayer
and softly drapes over the earth
like a loose-fitting sweater.

All of our hopes, all of our fears, our longings
and dreams… all pour into this stream.
From the deepest chamber of our hearts
stands an Ancient Mountain Peak, and from it
flows a tributary of Golden Nectar
waiting to bless the world.

The Great Mother appears
before me as this corroded
stone statue. I look
to Her chipped eyes and see
Her secret smile.

“Dear one,” She says,
“when I am finally crushed to a powder
and carried by the wind,
won’t I flavor the sky
like a well-seasoned steak
and whisper sweet prayers for
lips to sing?

“I am here to be worshiped
as practice, so one day
when I offer my blue, silken arm
you will lean forward and take
a hefty bite
from the sky.”

Don’t Worry,
this pain you are feeling
is nothing more than
the excruciating agony
of two holes drilled in your back
and wings shoved in.

An unharvested tree will only produce rot.
Even a goddess will sour if trapped in a box.

Tonight my back aches
from the weight of wings
unused.

I hear you worrying about the “Illuminati,”
“Big Brother” and the cameras hiding
on every street.

Don’t you know
there are conspiracies
much more grave
than that?

God’s very eye
is wrapped in the silk
of a bird’s gleeful chirp.

Each time one sounds,
His telescope extends
right to your heart!

And what’s worse
is every time you inspect yourself
naked in the bathroom mirror,
the Sneaky Bugger looks
from behind your very eyes

and drools
over the exquisiteness
of your every shape, contour
and curve.

At least the Illuminati
is not obsessed
like that!

A poet is somebody
who ties a rope to a led weight and drops it
down a bottomless pit. He listens for the
Absent Sound and captures it
with a handkerchief. He polishes this
into a beautiful gem, crushes
it to a fine powder, adds water and
dips in his paintbrush. Gently, he
slides his brush into sleeping ears
and giddily awaits
to hear of their dreams.

The thousand suns shine
into a microscopic magnifying glass,
and the beam becomes so thin
it slips past every artery of my heart
and every vein. It illuminates
the Waters of Freedom
that not even Time’s tides
can shake.

Jesus, Ram, Ganesh, Durga…
They are swimming in this pool.

When their heads pop up for air
They become like grains of salt-
soon to be dissolved
back into each others’ arms.

I will tell you,
once I discovered
who it was
behind these masks,

I became the faithful servant
of Love.

No true poet
claims to create beauty;
he discovers it
the way a tambura player
discovers
that perfect place on the string
to stroke.

Deep within your soul
there is an antique table
where the two Buddhas,
Sorrow and Joy, sit
to have tea.

Their arms rest on the table’s edges
as they lean close to each other’s eyes.

Within their intensity
lies four golden strings
waiting
to be played.

Taste your sorrows
the way a caterpillar
sinks his feet in the mud-
each of his leg hairs tremble
as they lick the wet, savory
earth.

The 10,000 ants
march across Indra’s marble floor.
Each of their hair-thin legs
strike the hard ground, and
it is like metal pins
dropped amidst silence.
To this, the ceiling responds
Ram, Ram, Ram.

Where my spine meets my soul
and my skull meets my mind
there is a thin wall
between this world
and the next.

Like a child laughing at his own
echo, my heart beats,
and against this wall
sounds Ram, Ram, Ram.

I am in one of those moods again
where I just want to kiss
anything that moves.

I would even kiss the Sun
if he would let me, but instead
he has climbed down his own
sunbeam and nestled in my heart.

Now when I kiss the plants,
the insects, or the Moon,
they burn
into stars.

This is what you
are yearning for, dear lover.
Just lean closer, and let me
kiss you
into who

you really are.

Today I was kissing the plants
because I realized

they contain
all of the Universes
that ever existed.

Now the crickets play their song,
and this dim candle
is slowly burning out.

I love the way my body feels
when I can hear the low hum
of the Infinite Universes
making love
inside of me.

This game… so joyous.
I live for this Secret,
the one I keep hiding
from myself

even though
it is really too large
not too see.

Imagine a brontosaurus
looking so embarrassed
as he tries to hide
behind the light post.

We will laugh so hard
when we can finally point
and shout, “There you are!”

The poets and lovers
know something of this cleansing,
of the moon tides, of the Silver Woman
dancing on the sea.

I have met Her
and was burned by Her flame.
I have gathered my ashes into piles
like leaves and pressed them tightly
to form this garden wall.

She is still here, seducing me
for the flowers growing wildly
on the other side.

A lake needs to be greeted by a river,
and bid farewell by one as well.

This is why I bottle my tears
and trade them at the marketplace.

Tasting another’s sorrows is so nice
just like the sound of that river to my ears.

No one really knows
why Christ died,
But I know
Him. He is the sound
of ocean waves
breaking on the shore.

We are all washing
each others’ feet
with our tears of longing
for Him.

The flutes cry at night,
longing for the wind, and this
is music to my ears.

My joy rises and falls
with the sound of His Name.
Entire worlds collide and rehatch.

I see His feet within me,
and how mad I must look
as I bow down
to my own
heart.

You tell me God is not real.
You have the papers to prove it
rolled up neatly under your left arm.

I unroll your papers and
crawl around with a magnifying glass.
I tell you your formula is perfect,
and I praise you for its beauty.
In that instant you
convert.

It will not be found
in sentences or books,
but if my chest splits
and my heart pops, my disease
will drip on these pages.
This is the secret of Bhakti.

You enter me in dreams
hidden deep within the hollowed edge,
the space between the space
where light melts like ice
and shadows slip away.

There is no room for us here,
unless we melt into the absent light,
and melt we do as shadows fall,
as stars collide and mountains sink.
As the winds hum and creation spins,
this is where we wait.

You crack open my head
like a coconut, snap off my wrist,
and use my finger as a straw
to suck out my water. My hand
is a spoon to scoop out my meat.

I am carved deep and empty.
What remains of my shell
is in love with you madly.

Gratitude opens the pores of my skin.
I embrace the wind with arms spread.

The heart can rest
when all blood has been emptied.

Breathing can stop
when I’m filled with the wind.

How can I talk of death?
I have not had it.

Only He who dies and rises
may speak of death,
and He tends to speak
with Silence.

Soothing rains can only fill
as deep as the shovel digs.

Paradise is an island of beauty
with winds of sorrow and bliss.

Even quilts weaved
from spiders and rainbows
will rot when covering mold.

But mold unmasked
is sorrow felt deeply,
waking the heart of the soul.

True conversion
is not the swapping of words,
the trading of dogma
or the switching of casings
that harden the heart.

It is when the shells shatter
from a swelled heart blossoming
that we are truly born again.

Men argue about my nature-
Am I formless or with shape,
a person or an essence?
Am I separate or the same?

Listen my friend and I will tell you:

I am the branch of the cedar tree
cracking at unexpected winds;

I am the sun
glowing dusk beneath clouds
that carry the burden
of rain yet to fall;

I am the dot of the eye,
the hair of the ear
and the blood that makes them tingle.

There is no reason to say
God is around me.
You only need to look.

Strike your knuckles
to the hard oak table
and I ring hollow in your ears.

If you feel the need
to say thank you, don’t worry;
I am the very thought
that you cover me with.

You don’t need to cling
or push me away,

I am here
with you,
here we are.

If I were only solemn,
I could write poetry like a measuring cup
collecting rain drops until they overrun the brim
and scatter into confused streams crying for their count.

If I were only joyous,
I could write poetry like a fat man
in a red shirt tickling himself with a bow feather
and laughing until fatigue reminds him it is time to eat.

If I were only sixty,
I could write poetry like a quail hunter
stretching his bow to encompass the long years
behind him; waiting in stillness for that perfect moment.

If I were only wise,
I could write poetry like Hafiz
wearing moonlight and star-tasseled shoes
tap dancing before the world; proving all is perfect.

If I could only know perfection,
I could write poetry like a golden apple
in a tree orchard, waiting with eager passion
for the summer child to take his first mouth-watering bite.

The post office is a melting pot;
all people are connected by the need to connect.
A woman stands on the cracked cement
and dances fire whirls. Her sermon is a gospel
erupting from a violin.
She is converting us all.

 
Spirit burns with raging fire
igniting the sky through the spine,
melts dross from gold, and gold
from desire, and desire
from blood-quenched heart
beats that fuel the fire
with pounding bellows
of air-filled lungs,

for flame requires
both wind and earth,
both breath and dross.

As long as breath wills life
and life breathes will
there will be life,
there will be breath.

As long as fire burns dross
and risen ash leaves shadows
there will be fuel,
there will be fire.

Love and Nothing
     are the fire,
are the bellows
     blowing fire,
are the ashes
     from the fire
burned again
     by the fire
until Love and Nothing
     are only fire,

and its last flicker snaps
as its dark cloud thins, there

is only Nothing,
is only Love,

when all is said and done.

I have become
a caricature
of myself.

I splash paint at the mirror before me,
trying to match its beauty.

I am a dove
gathering fallen feathers on the moss,
trying to fashion wings.

I am a fish wearing swim trunks.

Sometimes at night,
or in the early morning when
dim-orange streetlamps
reflect off wet pavement,
and silent breeze
becomes truly silent,
I finally see a tree
as a tree,
and my footsteps sound real.

We are not all One
because we are the same,
but rather
because difference entails beauty,
and beauty
is the church of the Universe.

It is like a Bach composition
where shades of spring and fall
are chosen
because of their relationship
to the whole. The song
does not change with the shift
in key or tempo.
It is only time that changes.
The song remains the same.

If Blake is right
and one grain of sand
contains the whole world,

then it is because that grain
is crumpled, dimpled, odd-shaped and different
then all of the other grains
in all of the other deserts
of the world.

Beauty exists because of difference.
Ugliness is what occurs
when we set one grain’s dimples
as the standard. We arrogantly
try to use that as proof
against God.

Everything becomes beautiful
when the grain is realized
to contain the whole world.
The kingdom of God is within.

What is the world coming to these days
with all of our labels?
If I write this as prose
they will say, “oh Ken, that was so nice,
Very sincere and simple.”
If I write this as verse
they will cry, “but where
are the images? I want something
I can touch and see,
or at least a good meter.

So a poem it is…

We all have these different philosophies
and we live by their rules.
My reason for writing this
is just as beautiful as those
that find it simple and dull.

We are not all One
because we are the same,
but rather
because difference entails beauty, and
beauty is the church of God.

.

One man
one Piano
bearded
wooden
aged By rain
splintered by love
crystal collages
of rain drops and melodies
it’s Here
in the ivory keys
striking
the hammer to the string
frogs leap
off lily pads
insects watch
in faith

That gap between the breath,
that space you hold before falling,
its only there
for remembrance while you breathe.

The Dalai Lama sits vivid
among blooming white roses
in the dream white sky.

You try to kiss him, but
in a stormy flash, he turns
to a greenish red and grows
spiked thorns from his temple.

The darkened sky illuminates
as flowers enclose cacooned,
birthing serpant men
with long tongues and tridents
watching as they circle you.

Your eyes gleam scared, but then
you remember its only death.

Open your eyes and here you are,
sitting in a park amongst a lightning storm.

You stand to walk home, but
your legs are weak, trembling
like rose pedals in abundance
as their stems fall limp.

.

The idea behind
the Asian art form
is to master
one’s craft
so that craft
can be transcended.
Transcendence
is the key
to destroying
the device that
made the key.

We
write poetry,
make music,
cry meekly,
love passionately,

fight off bees with our nose
for that morning flower,

hold hands,
make love,
moan deeply,
laugh weekly,

build gigantic skyscrapers that mask
gridded roads with skylight shadows.

We build up intricate structures
of integrity. We master
logic, language and reason
so we may feel justified
in destroying them with

ferocious
exuberations
of simplicity.

.

From spring glow to Om
I wash my hands
with city rain. Clouds
hover over a glistening
John Coltrane. All roads
lead to God. The Atman
rests in stillness, resonates
to and from my
morning breath as I
contemplate the twinkle
of awakened dreams.
Drizzle splats
of Handel and Bach
flow seamlessly between
spacious separations
of Zen furniture.
If you build it
He will come
Thy Kingdom come
Thy will be done
on earth
as we zoom our kaleidoscopes
to the fringes of the universe.
The Big Bang
loses all importance
when space and time
cease to exist.