They Meet October



there sways a hammock on Orcas Isle

yet shall she go towards Manitou

she moves upon a passage kissed

suspending ore the northwest sea

resting rains of pale pollution

to change the clouds of milky water

to hear the heron landing

to bend the limb from sky

a borderless world exists

a daybreak smell persists .


we are here now

truth turning feral in flight

where bird eggs roll

to smash on cliffs felt far below , a revolution

her wound a souls disaster

cracks at the feathered moment seen

his pupils naked thru the clothes of mist

a nest of sap flowing blood in substitution

ore the cobalt sea

a borderless world exists

a daybreak smell persists .


there stands a doe

the deer of Mount Constitution

the ravens  caw giving words to sky in echoed elocution

and from under forests debris

infant squirrels twist

a heart huddles

how she reaches

his thighs , his belly

how she reaches , he stares

the sky now jealous of his eyes

will he shoot the sheltered deer

if a borderless world exists

if a daybreak smell persists .


there sways a hammock on Orcas Isle

but will she sail to Manitou , alone upon

her land of blue , beloved blue

her land of blue .


Beatitude Point – Part 2 continuing – Francis … and life goes on


The world is in another orbit as gravity spins me back like a restless ghost to Orcas Island where my daughter is caught in the tides of heartbreak after being forsaken by her young husband . He is gone , seeking divorce … she is left behind holding their newborn .

Dropping me off at the Traverse City airport , my brother is kind .

” You will travel in a land of marvels “, I quote as I say goodbye and he looks at me questioningly , ” it’s from Jules Verne “.

” Just call me when you get there , I’ll be here to pick you up in two weeks “.

” OK Dave , I will …. Thanks , love you “.


Resembling a catacomb , her house crowded with a marriage destroyed and relics of hope and commitment left smashed and deserted like those crooked , paint chipped buildings from my photo series taken on my bicycle of ” places where no one is anymore “. Now her house , her soul , her wavy distressed mind hearing lyrics even when there were none , trying to make sense where there is none . This is the universe of mountains and rivers , of bread and wine , the world of poverty of human nature where man is left in sorrow … ” Blessed are they that mourn for they shall be comforted “.


This Pacific Northwest Island , an island of narrow bridges overgrown with wet moss and fern from constant rain falling where fog clings to the forest , holds a musky stench from oysters and fish , a rancid breath seeping into everything … the black bay so unlike the pure , clean , fresh waters of Lake Michigan . The difference like that between stagnate unwashed hair and shampooed soft , silky locks that swing when you walk . I miss home … the light that reflects everywhere , it is not here , the coffee not the same . But I have no right to lament as sorrow lays itself down in this house of my family .


I escape after long days into music listening to Ringos drum playing . He plays the heartbeat ( his secret of greatness ), perhaps this islands secret too held in the sound of the flapping wings of bald eagles who were here first before man . Everything starts with the heartbeat , our mothers heartbeat , life’s heartbeat and it sets the rhythm for the rest of our days . This is the connection between life and emotion , this drumbeat where the most important part of music is found . And the beat is subtle to me in the hamlet of Glen Arbor but here it is too loud , overpowing the quitar and the voices of the robins and the winds moving thru the branches of maple and oak trees I hear back home . And where have the stars gone ? They are lost in the presence of these tall pines on jutting mountain places . Melancholy forebodes in this strangely paradoxical place , stark and murky both where whales don’t linger long after feeding on other abundant species far below the earth . The landscape reminding me of an Escher drawing with its sharp angles , unexpected turns and mysterious depths , the whales juxdiposed in fluidity … another contradiction . Even though the streets have magical names like , Enchanted Forest Road , Fossil Bay Drive , and Owl Lane , I’m frightened of driving these roads , so dark that my eyes sting from squinting for the light . An onerous recollection of past years here haunts me of stumbles in a thicket , a thicket filled with thorns at every turn drawing blood . I think God is unjust now , unjust to my dear daughter . There is a sign over the door in a movie I can’t remember the title of , the sign says , ” How long will they last ?” It’s that Jane Fonda film where the dancers , the marathon dancers are hanging so desperately onto eachother , so exhausted that they can barely hold their heads up while their sore feet shuffle , shuffle in slow motion. This is the dance I find my daughter in . “This life is long isn’t it ?  We’ll do better in another life , with other gods to watch over us “, she once told me .


I can feel the slow spinning of the earth where across the continent of America , in another place and time , a boy of residual aching youthfulness is honoring his grandmother by presenting her with a slain deer and here , now , on this island my own little grand daughter removes a lollipop from her mouth and kisses the image in a glass frame saying , ” good night daddy ” as I draw the voluminous silk grey curtains lest she be on full view of strangers who loom . The wooden flute sounds just a sigh and I wonder of my life back home , my brother , the familiar faces of the coffee shop employees , that man who sits and writes there nearly as much as I do , his relaxed frame folded in the cafes leather armchair , his blue eyes searching the rooms four corners as if trying to see something beyond its walls … the days of my last chapter before my own heart stops where I’ve found the lighthouse at the end of the world , where the strongest urge is to write the story of my brother and his three mates tragedy while still somehow trying to make it into a love story .


On the ferry boat returning home there is an eerie pause of water and wind , the sky appearing like a single pearl and the ocean solid as if I could walk across it and I can hear the sound with absolute clarity of a lonely whale breaking the surface thousands of miles away . The loneliest whale in the world does exist . Scientist have been tracking her since 1992 and they know the problem . Her voice is unlike any other whale . No other whales can hear her as she sings at a higher frequency . She is alone . And it is here on this boat that I sense Gods infinite and benevolent hands of compassion holding my daughter and all of us away from the dizzingly crowded Picadilly Circus of confusion where every blade of grass has a shadow behind it . I tell myself to get it together … but get what together ? I’m bewildered . Thoughts are racing fast like the train racing south from Seatle in a streak of silver and blue to the east coast at 200 miles an hour …


” You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars , you have a right to be here . Whether or not it is clear to you , no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should … with all its sham , drudgery and broken dreams , it is still a beautiful world “.     Max Ehrman


Note : girl with fawn by Katerina Plotnikova


Photo of my daughter

Poetry Love Crown


For the past three years , no one had spoken to me , spoken about the ancient spiritual truths with me since leaving the island , this island of great calling . I had to learn by myself to grow alone in fortitude and to cling to the meaning of a divine name once given to me in ceremony by my teacher , a name that symbolized “courage “. There was a mystery about that man , a mystery I wanted to unlock like a rusty gate with honeysuckle and fern caught in its small key-hole . The past I had spent here was different now . I was changed too and the island felt smaller like a blurry ghost in the distance , panting with a sorrow of long ago , a sweetness and a sorrow that wrung my heart . . .


Sitting alone outside the yoga courtyard , a cool overcast morning , I saw her pass by on a bicycle ( I had never seen her before ) . She gave a hand signal to turn , a clue that she was from Europe . I felt a small , sharp , piercing inside my body and just sat very still for awhile . And then I knew everything was alright and life was exactly how it was meant to be and with this acknowledgement , a gust of music blew thru my braided hair loosing and setting it free and it comforted me . I had a letter to mail and walked to the post office and suddenly again , a feeling of fire burning me deep inside … she was exiting as I was entering … I looked , for a quick moment , into her small close-set eyes and saw a recognition between us and too , I saw her eyes merge into one large beautiful eye of translucent light , the light of a goddess . She was perfect for him . I felt her strength and was surprised at how tall she was , larger than me , and beautiful like a cloudless blue sky morning .


I walked and walked , an enormous silence enveloped in my soul . I wanted to be near the beach , near the cool water to calm the fire in my heart . I walked slow , panting from the mysterious moment so unexpected of seeing my lost loves , new love . And then as suddenly as it had occurred , my past detached and the freedom of its acceptance was like a waterfall , an untamed waterfall so clear and fresh like cool air molecules of the wooded pine where I had once rode horses with my beloved . And a new gust of music overwhelmed me in its joyful sound , rushing like the note of a gentle flute above the pounding of a beating drum  . Feeling in the presence of a rich and gripping masterpiece that I was surrendering too , a white car passed me from behind , down North Beach road … it was him ! … he glanced at me  … I saw his face … but he didn’t know it was me ( or didn’t want to stop ) . I stood silent on this immense island between  sand and sea . A single tear fallen , a voyage flowering , cascading like the river flow of my heart , while no one speaks to me . . .Image


Eastsound Bay by meg dickerson


remember the fish on the shore

love was a glowing blue eye

remember we stared and stared more

and then found a place on the bay to lie

two lovely eyes

a winter to die

two lovely eyes .


remember my statute that would cry

its broken arms you tried to heal

you came over me like a holy light

following the fish on the shore for more that night

two lovely eyes

a winter to die

two lovely eyes .


” Freedom and love go together . Love is not a reaction . If I love you because you love me that is a mere trade , a thing to be bought in the market , it is not love . To love is not to ask anything in return , not even to feel that you are giving something … and it is only such love that you can know freedom “. … Jiddu Knishnamurti















The Swan from Orcas Island


The Swan … By Mary Oliver

Did you too see it , drifting ,

all night , on the black river ?

Did you see it in the

morning , rising into the

silvery air ?

An armful of white blossoms ,


Bill Ecklund photography

A perfect commotion of silk

and linen as it leaned into

the bondage of its wings ; a

snowbank , a bank of lilies ,

Biting the air with its black beak ?


Did you hear it , fluting and

whistling – a shrill dark

music – like the rain pelting

the trees – like a waterfall

Knifing down the black ledges ?


And did you see it , finally ,

just under the clouds – A

white cross streaming across

the sky , its feet – like black

leaves , it’s wings – like the

stretching light of the river ?


Photos of Florence Welch from her Facebook Timeline photos

And did you feel it , in your

heart , how it pertained to

everything ? And have you

too finally figured out what

beauty is for ?

And have you changed your

life ?


Lara Zankoul photography

In honor of two spiritual teachers … for their inspirations when I lived in Eastsound …their examples of divine love like the soaring wings of the swan singing to me even now in the “stretching light” crossing the Black Sea of Bulgaria . I am grateful .

Dick Staub : founder and director at The Kindlings ( C.S.Lewis ) , pastor at the community church and author .

Aaravindha Himadra : teacher of spiritual awakening and truth-knowledge ( Sambodha ) and author of “Immortal Self ”


Katerina Plotnikova Photography

” The real act of discovery consists not in finding new lands , but in seeing with new eyes “.    Marcel Proust