Saturday, January 16, 2010


I rise before dawn’s light to mull and muse,
To settle mental matters that confuse,
Scanning for subtle signals from beyond,
My pen poised ready, like a conjuror’s wand.

I meditate, I cogitate, I sit,
I brood, I stew, I seek for words that fit,
Trusting I’ll find, beyond obscurity,
A clearing. How that is—is mystery.

Who knows the source of wisdom and insight
That subtly informs and sets us right?
To wandering souls, confounded and adrift,
Such intuition’s teaching is a gift.

My duty though’s to sit and to attend,
And my reward’s to see confusion end.



The reason that I write is to make sense.
When what’s going on is dark, obscure and dense
Or when I’ve lost my way or feel estranged
Or when my thought’s confused and brain’s deranged,
I take my trusty pen in hand and write.

What comes of that is profit and delight:
The profit isn’t cash but clarity,
And the delight is psychotherapy,
A leavening of my lost, despairing soul,
And binding of my fragments in one whole.

If what I write you later come to read
And you applaud, then doubly I succeed,
For I’ve not only made my own good sense
But shown I have some wisdom to dispense.