even if you didn’t ask….

curled up
on the sofa
of time
with memories
that purr
an old persian cat
becomes busy
a new life
must be
of reality
sinking sharp claws
deep into
their mortal skin
for them
how life
not only joy
a friendly
a friend
who will


no room at the end…

i do not mean
to complain
but this grave
has room for me
there ain’t no space
for all
should haves
would haves
didn’t mean toos
my friend
but this
is my

moon weavers…


perhaps this is some foolish
childhood memory
within each memory
lies some strand of truth
i speak to you of moon weavers
few outside these walls
know of them
so you must listen carefully
and heed my words this night
at the edge of the forest
in the small meadow
where the fog crawls
along the ground
are the spirits of warriors
the ancient ones
they spin silver threads
into braids of tears
placed upon our doorsteps
as gifts and protection
for those of us
who should own the land
if you must walk at night
you must not let a moon weaver
pass through your body
for if you do
you will feel
the sorrow of a hundred years
ancestors will appear before you
their death will feel like your death
the slaughter and rape
of those who loved this place
bathed in fire while they slept
ran down by horses
branded with bayonets
such visions have driven some mad
so beware my friend
for what you see
may be
your own history

to my friend’s life questions….

i could not see his face
nor hear the sound of his voice
but printed words
his words
were tears
tears one could hear
if listening with the heart
not for sounds
but for a soul’s approaching storm
where changing winds
swirl in patterns of disbelief
tossing sacred vows
against the rocks of  uncertainty
swirling the dust of doubt
into his mind
blinding his eyes to love
and to distant dreams
just beyond the horizon of hope
he could not see them
nor feel their presence
for the darkness of faith
was upon him
a darkness so thick
not even the voice of god
could be heard

a lost song…

not one feather
ruffled or out of place
no visible signs of distress
all your colors still bright
as if resting from flight
beside the road
and for one moment
i thought you would fly
but you had lost your song
and so i wonder
my little friend
why you should be here
did your lover break your heart
so badly that it just stopped
were you poisoned
by the promises of friends
thus draining your life spirit
or did you hear the dying cries
of your brothers and sisters
of air and sea
struggling in the gulf
and your heart
just burst with sadness

balpa dola while weaving….

was it not
     only yesterday
             my young friend
that i wove for you
      a simple pattern on my loom
              i thought so
now i must weave a pattern
      using many dark colors
             watch closely
for within the patterns lie
      what will become
             or is
notice here
      i have woven two sparrows
      caught on winter’s snowy cross
sharing crucified thoughts of yesterday
      here’s donovan’s mongoose
              being eaten by a snake
      and steven stills’ words
               come to life within but not without
how sad
       no doubt you say
but remember
       although a stone thrown across the pond
               may seem to float
       it quickly sinks
so it is with
       all that is and was
              sorrows and joys
              love and hate
              dreams and life
              pain and joy
all soon become
           only patterns upon my loom

[Note: balpa dola is the reader of the fox tracks…a soothsayer]