Buddha’s Hands


Purchased a small garden statue of a seated Buddha…

the point was to be mindful, sit Zazen, soak in the fresh

air while calming down in unconstrained surroundings.

Placed beneath rhododendrons, azaleas and a towering

hemlock, each season passes over and around him.

His hands fill with temporary attachment.

In fall, a collection of rust colored hemlock needles

drift down from overhead until the winter rains

flush them away. His composed hands become a water basin.

In spring, the spent rhododendron flowers drop while still

in full color and brown to a crisp in summer’s heat.

Breezes lift them and phlox petals settle in until September’s

asters break apart when October’s rains reappear.

Then the moss and lichens swell softening concrete edges

as fall fades and winter grays blur cloud, land and water

into quiet thoughts: beginning and endings of time and place.



A Kiss


Cranky was a new experience…

passivity wrapped in sticky tape was

a way of dealing with non-enunciation.

Only thoughts rambled in freedom

as long as they never gained a voice.

You know those sayings…

Patient as a saint…

Patience is a virtue.


Menopause was a radical change;

serious deterioration of placid exterior

allowed voice to gain elocution access.

Hormones executed patience;

there was no stopping unkind thought.

Sealed lips ruptured releasing tirades;

every insult or mistreatment bubbled its

fermented vile against all who came close.


She was a changed woman who skipped

breakfast to keep her new found edge.

Pushing others away after years of being

a rescuer, she basked in aloneness.

A million kisses wouldn’t wipe out years

of giving herself away; her heart tightened…

this bitter victory needed no other seasoning.



A kiss makes the heart young again and wipes out the years.   Rupert Brooke




Lacking sour thoughts

her days were blissfully peaceful.

Dream world was quite real;

there was no need to fret as her

immediate needs were met.

She floated with grace and purpose;

her face a porcelain mask with its delicate

features arranged in perfect serenity.


Locked in the basement, imagination

painted a life that stood between realms.

Compartmentalized existence protected

her inner core…  split horror from the soul.

Hunger phantoms laced the two together.

Waiting for release, she was beautiful in starvation…




Butterfly Mandala


Working on mandalas today –

sunlight flooded the workspace

before the sky turned back to solemn gray.

Finishing the butterfly design, I ignore

the quirky bits where spacing is off.

I am pleased not to be a machine.

My individual elements were lined up

by sight – no mechanical devices were used.

I’m human and accept moderate flaws.


Now I can creatively convalesce with

meditation eyes half closed softy staring

at four butterflies flying out of the center.

I need to observe breath for now…

feel my lungs fill to capacity –

release without a sound.

Soft eyes,

softer breathing,

inhale the light…




I salute the light within your eyes where the whole Universe dwells. For when you are at that center within you and I am that place within me, we shall be as one.  ~ Crazy Horse