The dead do not belong to the dead.
They belong to the living—

The living celebrate the dead—
They bring flowers, song
Enduring marble and elegies

Let us walk quietly
With those who have gone before

Let us talk silently
With those who breathe no more

Let us touch with memory
Distant days of years long past

January San Diego Rain
The winter brown hills
Turn an early spring green—

Happy rabbits

The magic of Harry Potter—
Young skater boys become wizards

I wonder if Shakespeare had lived today,
Would he be a Hollywood screenwriter?

Winter Grace

As the bounty
Of the earth and sky
Nourishes our flesh--

Our family, our friends
And our loved ones
Nourish that mystery
That dwells in each of us.

Shortly after dawn and the forest is perfectly still-

The 19th Century Romantic painters
With their perfect landscapes
That no one really believes

Were simply painting moments

Thinking and experience
Bring moments that
Transcend—

The realization
That God is that which is
Both below and above
Consciousness—

And is both the known
And the unknowable

Children see the world through eyes
Not yet touched by the experience
Their elders fear

I saw my mother cry
At her father’s coffin
And the six year old boy
Touched her hand and

I am the wind
Come follow me

I am the father of winter
The mother of spring

I am the wind
Come follow me

Days do not number
The miss-steps of my soul’s journey

Years and decades of seeking and searching
Lost and looking—occasionally knowing

Only for a moment with certainty

Socks don’t know emotions—
They just know our feet.

They wrap our heels and toes unconditionally
Paying no attention to the emotions of the moment

There are the boundaries of nations
And the boundaries of the room you are in

The boundary of birth
And the boundary of death

The boundary of the known
And the boundary of the unknown

I stumble for words in your modern world
Of constant communication where your thoughts dance
Like egos naked and unashamed on screens
That ignore the necessary privacy of soul.

I wake in the morning on the sadder side of things
The news of the world seems little different
Then it did when I was young 40 years ago

Death took two dark-eyed daughters
Of the Land of Abraham-Ayat and Rachel
Two daughters of the People of the Book
Arab and Jew
Martyr and Martyr
I sit and wonder
I sit and wonder