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                Inspiration comes in flashes,

Along with rhode island beaches, and

Moldy brown growth on the toilet,

Freshly caught fish grilled to perfection

And served with corn and squash

On paper plates;

The smell of salty air, and taste of

Eastern values thick in the mouth,

Fog horns and lightening storms,

Marshes infested with mosquitos

And dragging a boat across the freshly

Mown lawn, which smells sharp like

Recently cut grass, hands made raw

And rubbed sore by the taught rope

Used to pull it into the water among the reeds.

Sheets are thick and moist.

I’d love the smell of coffee

And fresh sage, misted in the

Morning dew, to greet me.

There’s no more pleasant way to

Greet the day than hearing the songs

Of the birds, chirping, laughing, playing,

Embodying the life and warmth of the

January sun, uncommonly strong and

Unobscured, brightening the day –

A blue sky; dead, brown fields. I’ll

Sit down in my sleeping bag and chant

OM MANI PADME HUNG  in a tune

I invented, or currently use, or comes

Through me, or whatever may be happening

There. Sip black coffee, too.  A glance at the branches

Outlined against the blue sky and followed by

The piñon hills, reminds me that everything is

Perfect just the way it is.

Poetry is such a joyless form. Fruitless, rather.

I see a lot of people hearing, not listening,

Seeing, not being. I’m struck by the thunder

Bolt of taking a moment, or rather of a

Moment taking you, and feeling your existence

fully, truly:

here.