Ballooning spirits 

A dream.

Everyone was excited. A big, bright, hot-air balloon had just arrived and it’s magical presence hovered above us all… waiting.   

I watched. People seemed to know just what to do and they were hurrying attaching large seeds to small coloured, helium balloons and releasing them.  The balloonists above quickly gathered them in.    

Then the scene changed and I was standing, holding a bunch of memorial flowers.  I looked around, unsure what to do and I saw that others were carefully laying similar flowers onto a double conveyer belt. In the fingers of my left hand I held a yellow daffodil.  I considered it and then began to examine some of the other things I had been holding to my chest. The first one, was some kind of floral wreath, it seemed to be made of dried up old forget-me-nots that fell apart in my hands.   A good friend who was standing beside me told me that I when I laid the flowers on the conveyer belt I was to ‘name' each flower when I set it down. These flowers were also being taken up and loaded into the balloon.  

The atmosphere was charged.  

The balloon was ready to take off and ballooning spirits sent it on it’s way! 

- end of dream. 

We all have our personal memorials…  memories that have shaped us, things that we hold close to our hearts, disappointment, loss, those “I’ll never let that happen to me or hurt me that way again” moments.  

In the starry expanse of my life what if I could legitimately start fresh?  

What if I could plant each black hole moment of my mind with a seed, a hope for a different experience ?     

I wonder if this replanting might loosen some of those old expectations so that the next time those old shadows fall on my path I won’t step backwards into fear but will dare to expect a surprising, a good, a better outcome?  

Here come the dancing ones 

here come
the dancing ones
the prancing feet of deer
sparking golden lights on the mountain path
romancing hearts
from fear

I can hear the
pure voice of diamond seed
the overflowing sing
honeysuckle flowers and bluebird swirl
the warming
whirling winds

I see the tree of life
a multiverse of scenes
stretching from the
depths of the vaulted heights
with healing in
its leaves

when every curse is lifted 
and every nation cured 
with waters clear as crystal  
twelve kinds of fruit-i-ful.


Catch the end of the ribbon  


catch the end of the ribbon 
at the end of the day 
in the swirling fog 
when you’ve lost your way 
catch the ripple of joy 
and the waft of scent 
hear the youthful lungs 
in it’s soft caress 
catch a hold of the color 
and don’t let it go 
as the Maypole turns on 
the harvest flow 
catch your heart as it bursts 
like a treasure-filled chest 
as it leaps like deer 
into golden net   
catch the end of the ribbon 
at the end of the day 
let the fairground attraction 
have the final sway

the dancing dew 

spread your wings 
with silver sheen 
and dew drop trails 
across the green 

with moonstones scattered 
in cloak of night 
beyond the fractured 
reach of light       
what’s in a drop? 
what worlds lie yet 
for brightest dawn 
with full palette? 

The small mirror 

a temple  
is a house 
a shelter 
a home 
a vessel 
that carries 
a source  
an abode 
of light 
or of dark 
a place 
to be filled 
with wine 
or with oil 
or with gold 
or goodwill 

who lives  
in your chapel, 
your cave  
or your den? 
whose tables  
are trading? 
whose purses  
are filled? 
what pours  
from the mouth 
of your earthenware  
Is it rivers  
of life 
or the waft 
of decay? 

the tables 
will turn 
should the Master  
the merchants 
of bad  
true order 
and making  
things new 
the waking 
of morning 
the touch of  
fresh dew 

a temple  
is a garden 
of blissful 
the fruits 
of a forest 
reach of night 
the sweetness 
of honey 
that flows 
from a rock 
a mirror 
whose depths 
we unlock

Analog man in a digital world 

Am I flesh of your flesh 
& bone of your bone? 
or zeros and ones 
and definable code? 

Has the lid been opened? 
Must I enter in? 
To a box so small  
and so limit-ing? 

Seems the waft of knowledge 
like a heady mist 
makes my eyes go blind
and my insides twist 

Long ago there was garden 
and a simple way 
there was dirt on toes 
there were friends to play  

I am analog man 
In a digital world 
In a white noise breaker 
In a sea of curl

The new draught 

a draught of strength
drawing nigh 
with oxen pull
and soldiers eye 
shoulders set 
united stance 
their humble entrance 

a train of thought
a future breed 
with winds and wines 
and med-i-cines 
their nostrils flare 
these fires breathe
as lungs expand 
in victory

The Highlanders 

An expanse descending 
like liquid rainbow 
fire droplets 
complete, tangible, worlds 
felted fire-tears fall 
dressing the beautiful heads 
with feathery bright delight 
tribal warriors risen 
line upon line 
song upon song 
dance upon dance  
they advance in succession.

Wild Imaginings! 

Imagine.  It’s a big word. 
Where do you start?  The fact is I have already started.  All of those anxieties, conversations, outcomes and second guesses that I allow to play over in my mind aren’t actually real. I’m just imagining them! Then they seem to have this insipid way of snaking out of my mind and into my behaviour, into my responses and ultimately coloring the choices that I make.  They are changing my life.
Imagine if I imagined good stuff!
Recently someone asked me.  “How many windows are in your house?” Within a few seconds I could walk through the house in my mind and count up all the windows. It was a great little exercise.
I wonder where else I can go with that? 
If I can lift my head and allow my mind time to wander and hang around the fair meadows would that change my life too?  Maybe I could be a really good pianist?  Maybe I could invent new ways to bring joy to my friends and family?  Maybe I could paint? Maybe I could fly?...