Last Americana Frontier

I recently drove with my dog from California to Alaska and back again.  They say that Alaska is the last frontier; I say we should just leave it alone, leave what’s left of it to the wildlife and the forces of nature.  Haven’t we yet claimed and desecrated enough of this great country?  Anyhow, I’m still very glad I made the trip; the adventure was definitely in getting there!  And instead of trying to describe this awe-inspiring journey, let me just share a little bit of what I saw…




















































































































































































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We lived each hallowed drama
like it was all we’d ever known
like the only true thing and it would last forever
Never dreaming that our story
would dissolve into the history pages
Never knowing that our day would surely end
or whether or not we would even be remembered
I have to remember who I am
I’m the heart and soul of all those I’ve loved
Residing in the temple of cherished infinities
Subsiding on life’s endless mysteries
Living every moment like a forgotten dream

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We Are Like The Seasons (For Paulina)

Seasons 1
We are like the seasons
of the earth we so embrace
Cells spinning in circles, vibrating like the stars
Invisible wonders in our bones & blood
tumbling like the cosmos, ever expanding

Springtime we appear like the wildflowers
Splattering our colors across the plain
Our innocence bright & unshakable
Our destinies fresh as the early dew

Summer brings boundless days & balmy nights
We play long & run hard
Every horizon, a high adventure
Every encounter, a magical affair

Autumn slows us down with its deep, rich tones
Taking time to look around
in ways we hadn’t fathomed
& feeling the cool, calming winds of change

Winter graces us
with its clean crystal blessing
Ice & rain to wash away
all what the seasons have rendered
all these things which have formed our worlds
& branded our souls, we let them wash away
let them go, we give them back
to the mysterious night
And while outside the days are short
the field is barren & the sky so cold
Within, ah within our hidden den
it’s forever safe & warm
Glowing cavern, Sacred Heart
In all ways radiating
with every love or kindness we have ever known
Like a baby bear we crawl back
into this shelter
Back to the Sacred Mother
who watches over as we slumber
& then awakens us from our dusky dream
so that we may witness
the rising sun
Seasons 2


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Four-legged Angels

If you’re anything like me, animals have always been a very important part of your life and have filled your days with joy and love..

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DEDICATED IN LOVING MEMORY TO THE GREATEST HOUSECAT TO EVER LIVE ON EARTH OR IN HEAVEN, Jack (2009-2015) AKA:  Jack of Hearts, Pookey, Pookeybutt, Jack-o-lantern, Light-em-up-funny-face-jack-o-lantern, Pumpkin Head, Funny Face, Stinkpot, Jackpot, Mugsy, Jacko, Rambling-jack-highway-cat-extraordinaire, Mugsy Nose, The Crunchmaster, Pookadilly, Pookadelic, Pooka, Coyote Cat, Jackie, Jackie-kins, Pookey-kins, Spooky Pookey, Summersault-coyote-cat, Double-patty-burger-butt, His-Royal-Pookeyness, Happy Jack, Purr-monster, Emotio-cat, Little-sheister-shenanigans-cat, Rascal Cat, Big Guy, Water Cat, Catfish, Jack-in-the-box, Blackjack, Long Cat, The Bodyguard, Professor Pookey, Fireside-terrace-cat, sweetsie-sweetpea and Jackie Bear…

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The Cell

The human brain is a mystery that not even the highest scholar can fully decipher…While simultaneously running our bodies, it connects us to further dimensions of awareness, higher sources, unseen life forces…Releases hormones and other chemicals which not only makes us who we are and controls our reactions to the world around us, yet is also the conduit for our physical selves to angelic spheres, those other plateaus of life and spirit.

So many high thinkers from all sides of creation and existence spend so much time and energy separating the spirit from the cell…It seems to have to be one way or the other, take your choice…Meanwhile in reality the cell is the spirit and the spirit is the cell, all is one.

Not even the most enlightened soul could dismiss science and not even the most brilliant scientific mind could deny that the frailty of their work rests on the fact that spirit never dies.

The inner earth is rumbling
Cells of our temples crumbling
Deep in earth’s caverns
most forbidden answers lie
like the mysterious unexplored
regions of our mind
Listen to the earth
Love with all you are
Spin those cells and light the temple
with your precious shining star

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Prayer of the Haunted Heart

This one is from “More Ghost Poems”, another of my nine self-published poetry chapbooks circas 1999-2004:

God please take these feelings of fear
from my bones and my breath
until my time has come
to meet the angel of death
Take these haunted dreams
shadows in the night
Take this haunted heart
into your flaming light
So many words left unsaid
So many things to settle still
God please take me into your golden dome
Use me as you will
and then bring me home

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Angel Prayer

This little prayer is from 1999, originally appearing in “12 Poems At The End Of Another 1000 Years”, the first of  my self-published poetry chapbooks:

O angels please take this mysterious sorrow
from my heart of hearts
Take these dark spots from my soul
Remind me of the simple ecstasies
the privilege of these clumsy senses
O angels I thank you
for helping me to remember
to be thankful for this air we breath
though it’s veiled in toxins
For the ability to hear
though the music has a price
For the special treat of taste
of the bitter with the sweet
For your generous gift of feeling
though it sometimes burns so deep
And for this vision I can only hope
will be clear and fair for the rest of my years
here on this planet, within this system
of light and dark, contained by this galaxy
which at once seems so strange
and so very much like home

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Live A Little

Originally appeared in “Ghost Poems”, one of my nine chapbooks of poetry self-published between the years 1999-2004:

Is this what it all comes down to?
We live a little
Never fully understanding the mechanics of self
or the purpose of these physics in motion
We just plug along each new day and
try to make our way
and then we die
No matter our endeavors
Never mind our efforts
It’s inevitable
It always turns out the same
This is why it’s so very important
to closely examine our usage of time
perhaps reevaluate what really counts
Because it always turns out the same:
a little life, a lot of death
Sometimes I feel like a ghost
moving through each new day
each new frame of this light and dark system
A phantom in my own world
Invisible, insignificant
to the proceedings around me
But I know all what’s come to be
is an illusion
The strange evolution
which has come to pass so quickly
all a passing dream
And I know there must be something more
An essence of something true
A common grain
which always stays
despite the fallen garden

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Elder Dream

All I wanted was to live a long life
A grand, foolish life–to grow old
I didn’t think about the ones
I’d lose along the way

To live an abundant life
full of mix-matched love
magical emotion, rowdy adventures
I didn’t even think of all the goodbyes
The slaughtered intimacies
The sacred tears and moments
that would trail off into history

To be an old woman
Rocking on a porch somewhere
Full of stories, visions and dreams
I didn’t take into consideration
maybe no one will be listening

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An Easter Story

It comes to mind every year around this time
Funny how things work, a stranger
30 minutes over 30 years ago
Of course I don’t even remember his name
I’d just landed my first job in that neighborhood
Was pouring drinks in old town Monterey
Tending to the chain of gypsy souls that flowed in and out there
A wild assortment of fleshly ghosts indeed, a deep end gathering
In walks this man, a lone man
So completely alone, you could feel it
An empty zone, a pillar of alone-ness
with a vacant smile and haunted eyes
He takes a seat at the bar
A slow day, empty room, lazy hour
Juke box tunes and dice cup clatter
watching the sidewalk traffic
No one had cellphones then, no texting, no PC’s
It was a time for real living
You wanted to know, you asked
you went out and found out
You had something to say, you just said it: fretting, feeling, fucking and fighting whatever came down, it was a first-hand affair
It was a time for naked souls exposed to life’s natural elements
As soon as this man sat down and started drinking he poured out his story to me
And how did I know his was for real?…you may be asking
I just did, I’ve always had my way of knowing
The real question would be why he told it, why he poured it onto me
He said something about my face
found something in my eyes
Maybe I just always attract ’em
Maybe he knew we’d never meet again and simply had to unload his burden
Brute with a conscience, hit man’s lament
He’d killed repeatedly, a hired hand
Not exactly the type of line one would use to flatter a girl
I could see that every pore of his soul was on fire
I had never met so lonely a man
He could never have a real friend, not ever in this life
because his life was a pack of lies
and he had to keep moving
Money?  Sure, tons of it, but blood money
Nice houses, plenty of them, one right after the other
He never wanted for that kind of thing
But was in too deep to ever change
And his life, he said, was like one of those chocolate bunnies
Shiny, colorful and full of promise
Looking so good on the exterior
Yet nothing but empty air beyond a very thin layer of sweetness and foil
an empty, hollow space inside
This was right around Easter Sunday, come to think of it
And every time the season passes
I couldn’t see an Easter basket without thinking of him
and wondering if he ever found asylum from his evil deeds
And with every year for me comes a little bit deeper understanding:
Is not each of our lives a little like one of those hollow shiny rabbits?
Dazzling and impressive to the eye
yet ladened down with guilt and fear and empty promises?
Are we all not somewhat artificial?
Living for the things that look good and spend well
but constantly ignoring the cold dark void within our every soul?
Though not all of us have killed by the force of our hand
Haven’t we all been guilty of murder in some form or another?
Killing the light, destroying the spirit that connects us
Forgetting to be grateful
Quick with judgement, envy, betrayal
And always so slow to forgive
As though the empty scorn never existed within our own heart
Collecting the grudges, lining up our scapegoats for the fall
Thoughtlessly censoring the love letter to Jesus
from that sad, remorseful broken-hearted Judas

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