I’m never worried that the
squirrels will eat my
birdseed.
Maybe it’s squirrel seed.
Why would I use the gas and
spend the money to
haul home feed for
one species while wishing to
shoo away another?
I love nature, not just birds.
I’ve never worried that the
ants will find the
hummingbird cocktail.
It’s sugar — what’s not to love?
Why would I fill the glass bulb and
screw on the base and
hang it upside down for
the bumblebirds and not let
the workers have a donut?
I love life, not just the pretty kind.
I’ve never worried that other
people will benefit from the
rights I fight for.
We’re all in this time together.
Why would I carry a sign and
march down the street chanting
words of resistance and equality
and not want every body to
experience justice?
I love freedom, not just mine.
Tag: Poetry
A Rosebush is a Weed
A rosebush is a weed
If it grows where there is no need
for roses.
I once saw a British garden show
where the host named plants that need to go
and mentioned rhododendron.
As if the mother of the flowers
born in Appalachian showers
was innately troublesome.
I rid my plot of chamomile
because I don’t grow chamomile,
though I drink it as a tea.
I buy it at the grocery store,
a blend of chamomile and more,
but pull it like a weed.
There’s little to no evidence
advocating the existence
of dandelion in a yard.
But some find it copacetic,
Claim the leaves are diuretic
And toss them with some chard
I pulled a knee-high mimosa
from amidst my prize azaleas,
stars of my floral show.
It would have been a fine tree,
but killed the vibe most certainly,
and so it had to go.
Where there is no need for roses,
Even roses are a weed.
Don’t just bloom where you are planted.
Plant yourself where there’s a need.
Oh, To Have Been ‘Round the Moon
How jealous we all were of the crew of Artemis II. To leave this third rock for even an abbreviated fortnight, to see the world without borders, to be pleasantly news-less.
We think we live in unprecedented times. On one hand, we do, and on the other, these times are grossly precedented. We still fight over religion and land and power and politics, like the ancient Sumerians and Egyptians did. Like the Britons and Vikings did. Like the Muslims and Christians did. Oops . . . do.
The only path to peace I know in the midst of it all is to regularly and meaningfully transcend. Exit the gravitational pull. Step away. The Buddhist Heart Sutra gave us the perfectly concise mantra Gate, Gate, Paragate, Parasamgate, Bodhi Svaha. The meaning is simple: Gone, gone, gone beyond, gone completely beyond. Oh, what an enlightenment.
The most consistent question I receive as an interfaith minister is the question of how we live in this world, how we juggle politics and family, how we maintain bliss in the face of chaos. SHOULD we maintain bliss in the face of chaos. Honestly, I don’t have one go-to answer. I often respond based on how the day feels, what has been shown to me, and/or how the inquiry is couched. I do think we have to be artful with this question — what works one day may not be the next day’s answer.
I do know, however, that the way to be ready for what each day holds is to remember who we are, go into the silence, enter the inner spaciousness where Divine Presence lives in us as us. Succumb to the stillness. Sit still and listen with ears of the heart.
The German poet, Rainer Maria Rilke, wrote a poem that serves as a good reminder of what is real in the beyond. Here it is translated into English by Stephen Mitchell:
BUDDHA IN GLORY
Center of all centers, core of cores,
almond self-enclosed, and growing sweet—
all this universe, to the furthest stars
all beyond them, is your flesh, your fruit.
Now you feel how nothing clings to you;
your vast shell reaches into endless space,
and there the rich, thick fluids rise and flow.
Illuminated in your infinite peace,
a billion stars go spinning through the night,
blazing high above your head.
But in you is the presence that
will be, when all the stars are dead.
Nickie’s Reverie
“His hair is mmpl.”
“His hair is what?”
“His hair is mmpl.”
I will never know
what word describes his
hair, and so I change
my tack. “Whose hair?”
“Edwin.”
“Edwin? Who’s Edwin?”
“My teacher.”
You take no classes. You
have no teachers. I know
you are talking in your
sleep about someone you
won’t remember when I
ask you later.
I love that I know,
whoever Edwin is, he is
not a lover or a secret
or a problem.
I love knowing where
you lay your head each
night and where I
lay mine.
I love knowing that you
trust me so deeply even
your subconscious
tells me all.



