At the well of solitude

At the well of solitude
Where the dead and the living link hands
At the side of an abandoned road

We see when the clouds open and the sun
shines through

They are smiling….

Whispering of windows shuttered
On an unknown plain….

The ones with ghosted eyes

Within our dreamtime
to watch….

the bones melt on the window pane…

And the one song that has followed us
All this way…

Is playing….

Poem for not turning away
Bologna 14 apr 20


Found a thousand butterflies in the icicles 

A single tear in the willowed rain
Found a veterans broken whistle in the worn pocket of a sad refrain
Moved us beyond ourselves to this clearing place 

Where moonlight in our souls remain

Sing to us justice 
Sing to us peace….
Sing to us again….

Bologna 9.april.20

In this brief rest

In this brief rest
An anointment of sunlight through leaves

In this late hour
Late for animals

Late for humans….

Wolves of memory 

In the half light of dawn….

Something has passed
      And will no longer follow us….

Though it’s sound will live with us forever….

Its same hawk
circling in its hymn of light….

The raven texts….a day poem

Sitting at dusk

Sitting at dusk by the stilled leaves….
                   A rivered sound in the passing clouds….

Slow now the arriving winds
                            That have known us….

                         Out of it stories of aged lights and movement
      Crescendoing now in the small breath beside me….

                         Its long journey made of sinew
                                                      Of cedar

                                   Of life….

From the stronghold

The future walks among us…

Where we fall in the dew of shadowless beings
Where we taste evil and blood and know our silence
Is its mother….

Where we lie down in fear of sleeping our eyes transfixed
On a wind of blowing dust and skin…..

The future walks among us….

Where we hear the muted prayers of a vanished child at
The gates that
open toward nothing….

Where we hold one another in the dying parts
Of ourselves…

Where we waken in dawns aflame
And feel the stick figures

On the ancient walls watching us….

The future walks among us….


In the rain just now

In the rain just now
Before dawn….

The smallest stones filled with moonlight
Dim their lamps….

Each morning
The same singing
Hangs from the trees where the owls sleep….

Soft songs melting through the leaves

The fragile leaves….

Hidden among the death masks….
The still open hands holding
A wind…

Over which a nightmare I have dreamt all my life

Is sounding….

The songs
Foggia italy



Where light has lain with the floating leaves
            These spirited ones sit in bundles of air….


Winds scented of the saliva of spirits…
For those resisting …

In the streets of la Paz…

   Deep mystery and strength in the
Veins of the Aymara….

                Warrior fires flickering in 
the mountains….

For Evo Morales 
Aymara leader

Aymara language