Each memory is its owndiscreet and distinctEach a singular worldin an idiosyncratic solar system An overflowing ashtray a stone cata glass of scotch a corncob pipeThe living face of a dead lover frozen in B&Won an old fitness pass long ago expiredA dogeared paperback on Tilopa’s song of mahamudraComing...
We Will Meet Under The Bodhi Tree Two blocks north the Zen center stretches in a sun salutation. One block south the Fellowship blinks its sleepy doors to greet the coffee makers and flower arrangers. We buckle on our Mary Janes you tie your soft-soled shoes we toss the...
After my grandfather’s death, my mother mailed me a pack of random photographs she found on his desk. The poems collected here refer to those photos, with each photo representing a tarot card and my attempts to make sense of his life and to reconcile our vastly different spiritual...
I shine like a radioactive isotope, on a day when the water is as dark as the primordial soup, mixed with few capsules of my forgotten nightmares. Dreams are awfully lonely. Add more mute stones and molten salts to make it your lonelier reality. We wait for the lights,...
New contemplative poetry from Natalie Crick Hush Hush Again the storm is waving, and concealed Between these waxen nets We look on. I can see no cordon, But the brittle fence and shushing stalks By which morsels of bush and neighbourly gusts Strained on fresh waste, can be absorbed....