“…love life in a form that is not your own and be indulgent toward those who are growing old, who are afraid of the aloneness that you trust…. and don’t expect any understanding; but believe in a love that is being stored up for you like an inheritance…”

“Make your ego porous. Will is of little importance, complaining is nothing, fame is nothing. Openness, patience, receptivity, solitude is everything.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet


Some say
and its quietude
is a nightmare of isolation,
the opposite of love,
that an empty room
is not filled by their own body
only by others.
Some hide under crowd-cover
or run from themselves to another.

Solitude might be cherished
even more than a lover.

What else but solitude
nourishes your poems like rain on wildflowers,
grows your songs, flows your art?

What else
opens to the vista beyond your confines,
returns you to yourself,
honors your silence,
makes space for your tears,
and a place to rest.

What else
leaves room for your questions
is the dawn for your answers
reminds you of the warp and weave
connecting the universe,
the unconditional oneness.

What invites you to meditation,
brings you to your spirit,
leads you to prayer?

Earth, Isn’t This What You Want: a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke

Earth, isn’t this what you want? To arise in us, invisible?

Is it not your dream, to enter us so wholly

there’s nothing left outside us to see?

What, if not transformation

is your deepest purpose? Earth, my love,

I want it too.. Believe me,

no more of your springtimes are needed

to win me over—even one flower

is more than enough. Before I was named

I belonged to you. I see no other law

but yours, and know I can trust

the death you will bring.

See, I live. On what?

Childhood and future are equally present.

Sheer abundance of being

floods my heart.

from the Ninth Duino Elegy

To Find the Answer

The mind runs
like a train to a small town
where the news is old.
It travels
to the same
endlessly certain
so you can live

from the intrusion of possibilities
by questions.

Bound tight

your muscles clenched


You are puzzled

by how hard it is to bend,

to reach out or up

of the bars in your jail cell
like a fish, unaware of water.

In your narrow, airless room
open the dusty curtain
lift the window
vistas to open
where solutions
like surprises
rise up as flowers ready to bloom
in the soil of spaciousness.
your hands
your own neck.
Unlock the prison cell.
Step outdoors
at last
fresh mountain air
at the start of a new day
in a new place.
Unfold yourself
like a blanket on the grass.



The Greeks have more than one word for love.

It begins with storge, family,

where we can find,

      if we are the fortunate few,

 philautra, self-acceptance.

So clear-eyed, well-fed

we make our way to philea or even, though rarely,agape.

The rest of us,who were planted in cold, rocky soil 

grow stunted, frozen

reach for fire, thinking it is the sun.

Romance is the name for our illusion of love

a fog that hides the shorelineas we navigate

by wishes and lies

instead of stars.

Tossed about, dizzied, bruisedby storms we name passion     

  whose dictionary synonyms are pain, obsession, mania. 

We think we will be saved 

by grasping,


tighter still

to the punctured hull.

The Aeon of myth and Tarot appears before us

the Star Goddess Nuith,

       her companion, Hadith, a winged ball of fire, 

       is omniscience

       their child Horus

       clear insight.

Aeon rises above the waves,

as an eagle now

wings spread 

calls out to us

philea, agape

philea, agape




Who Will Explain?

The brown-eyed children,
under silver blankets
that sparkle like Christmas tinsel
or gleaming party gowns
worn at country clubs,
sleep on the cold, cement floor
but do not understand
the wire cages,
their loneliness
the long, hot walk
through the desert.
Do they wonder,
as children will,
what they did wrong?

Who will explain
to them

this land that hates them,
these people who sleep
on silk sheets
walk on marble floors,

washed by brown-eyed women,
take cool rides
in shiny new trucks
through the desert

like cruel-eyed matadors

immune to the pain

of the bull,
drunk on their comforts.

Who can explain
why these people
never wonder
what they did wrong?

How Could She Choose Him? Why Didn’t She Leave?

Mostly she doesn’t remember

but this

hiding under the porch stairs

like a frightened dog.

The mother, who cannot reach her,
bares her teeth, screaming.
The girl knows 
it is all her fault.
Mothers like good girls
pretty girls.

No one tells her differently.
They are afraid.

The woman huddles on the floor
makes herself small, silent.
The man’s eyes blaze
it is all her fault.
Men like good girls
pretty girls.

She hears the echo.