And when it's all done, it feels like such a miracle, like birthing a child. It's so hard to believe I had a major part in creating it.

My 1st song in 30 years rises behind my eyes, begging to come out. I'm trying to sing the stars, thirsting to sing the stars.

In the aftermath, writing about gratitude and mindfulness seems kind of callous, even frivolous. Or perhaps naive. But it is not.

Perhaps I can truly hear the small things that I, personally, can do to help shift the balance from fear and hatred to love.

Loosen, fingers, loosen your death grip on this very day. Open to the atmosphere of open, drink in large draughts of clear.

After all these years I'm still amazed when those minuscule seeds grow into plants hundreds of times bigger than their infant selves.

This is a bit odd, I thought...Of course, you can pick my experience to pieces logically if you want to. I'm choosing to take it as a gift.

In the artist's journey these inner fears often *are* the Threshold Guardians: I'm not a good enough. This is stupid. Nobody will like it.

Puddle-wonderful: the unbuttoned delight--and the wistfulness--of early spring, in two poems and some photos.

The boy is nervous about wild animals that might be stalking around outside. Yet when he hears scratching at the door, he opens it, a bit.

Two poems about loss & hope--one from a grand river, and one from a small creek in the wilderness.

There are lots of things to be afraid of as a writer--being exposed, ignored, ridiculed. But there’s also elation, even wonder, as I write.

He touched the lives of millions around the world, faithfully scattering seeds of peace, compassion, mindfulness, non-violence, humor & joy.

What a strange and sometimes very difficult thing it is to be a human being. And perhaps no period is more difficult than the time of grief

Another song--it could be a modern psalm to the mysterious, the unfathomable, the achingly beautiful unknown. Tender beyond hope.

Never really listened to the words for any Grateful Dead songs. True statement. Never listened to or looked at the words, fool that I was.

I never thought it would happen to me. I know that's trite but there was some secret part of my mind that never believed I would get old.

Sometimes I slow down enough to tune into a tree, enough--perhaps--to hear the trailing notes of an ancient song.

A fearful thing to love, to hope, to dream, to be–to be, And oh, to lose. A thing for fools, this, And a holy thing, a holy thing to love.

Today I just want to share a few poems that have touched me over the years.