Black Feather


A black feather of a vulture

dances in the breeze

A door cracks slightly open.

Romeo barks up into the trees.

Motmot perches on a garden post and cocks his head

waiting for an answer to a question never asked.

The black feather, tied to the blue awning of the sky

twists and twirls and jumps,

but will not escape its bonds today.

I step under it and await my turn.



The Birth of the Universe


On that borderline

between the forces of negative and positive,

is where that terrible spark occurs.

It’s where the first beginning began.

Running to catch the bus,

pebbles rolling along a stream,

birds singing in the morning dimness,

drinking beer and laughing on a street corner

while a million computer screens burn

on desktops built for one.

It was all new then.

Well, there’s a first time for everything,

and that even goes for the first time,

because until that very spark occurred,

there was no before.

There was no after.

There wasn’t a blessed thing.

That very spark,

when it finally happened,

was, in fact,

the very first moment,

and it has never ended.

Everything we and it is,

is that short-circuit.

It’s making one hell-of-a-whap.

and it’s still whapping.

Whap, whap, whap, whap, whap,

in every beat of your heart,

every thud you make, every whimper.

What will come of it all?

We’ll just have to wait for the dust to settle

to find out.

But wait a minute,

some voice coming out of the haze pipes up..

Where’d the forces of positive and negative come from

so they could come together and go pZZZZZZZZZZZZt?

It’s the old chicken and egg thing again

Such a logical question. Has to be human.

They think they have to know everything…..

Well, they must have started acting up too, naturally.

You have to expect a lot of confusion

in the middle of an explosion.

Maybe it’s an accident? Must be.

Only a human would mess with perfection.

It’s circular, of course.

Most of these blasts are,

or rather spherical.

A bit oblong, really.

There’s an inside and an outside….

I can see it!……..I can see it!

It’s coming. It’s here.

Everything gives birth to itself.


Ingenius if you ask me.

Isn’t that a bit painful? I hear you ask.

Of course it is, but it’s one-hell-of-a thrill too.

Kind of like jumping off a zillion meter high cliff

into a mud puddle.

Whoa Baby!!!

When you create duality,

you’ve gotta take the bad along with the good.

If you don’t like fire,

don’t play with matches.

and if you don’t stick that thing into an electrical socket,

it’ll never light up, guaranteed.

Now don’t blink, you might miss it.

You don’t want to spoil it.

Oh shit! It’s Clive Butters with a smartphone!,


Here we go!

Witness the Day


Chachalakas cackling like noisy gossips

in a forest of thorns

while white wing doves admonish

in the deep richness of morning light and shadow

passing over grasses covering the hillside drying

in the end of a perfect cycle,

heavy with grain,

waiting for the rains,

where mice, no longer plaguing my pantry

scurried hungrily in the cover of night

in the dim light of distant stars,

but lay sleeping this very moment

in secret urgency,

while I, awake, sip coffee simultaneously

listening and watching in silence

and seeing nothing moving,

have nothing important to say,

wanting only to witness the day

while scratching sky and scuffing dirt

with lizards along the road.



The Patterns of Ourselves


There are the patterns of all things,

whirring, waving, looping, rising and falling,

spinning, pulsating, reproducing,

the endless repetitions of beating hearts,

the flutterings of wings,

The vibrations of light and sound,

the waves crashing on the shore,

inhaling and exhaling,

the passing of days and nights,

darkness and light,

left and right,

alternating currents of energy

running through crisscrossed wires,

atman endlessly dividing,

forming and dissolving

into yes and no,

stop and flow,

joy and sorrow,

the symmetry of the turning

of galaxies in infinate space,

the orbits of planets around stars,

the cycles of suns and moons and seasons,

the same each day or month or year,

yet varying endlessly,

changing, if only infinitesimally,

defying consistency,

the trips to the store each day for food,

going to work or school each morning

or to the bathroom in the middle of the night,

patterns of speech and thought,

our repetitive reactions to things,

the acquired habits and addictions of lifetimes

which bind us to our lives,

that we have invested in,

for better or worse,

the illusion of our consistency,

our identity,

the whorls on the tips of our fingers and toes,

like the complicated designs

on the wings of butterflies,

our symbols,

the crazy signatures of our individuality,

all of these beautiful forms

of which our lives consist,

all part of the intricate design

of our outrageous universe,

the pattern of ouselves.



The Pitted Path


How many times

have I walked this pitted path

that extends from the birth of a body

to it’s dissolution?

How many times have I crisscrossed

the cold rivers and creeks

of knowledge looking for answers

and not found them.

How many times

have I looked into those clear waters,

only to find loose sand

drifting beneath the surface which is

reflecting illusions in sunlight,

glittering profusely.

How many times

have I questioned the deceits of the mind,

thought, the senses, memory, emotion, imagination,

the existence of money and borders,

and the separateness of you and I.

How many times

have I queried

the light behind the masks

of all those varied and distant Gods,

testing their veracity,

while seeking their reassurance and love,

hearing only silence ringing in my ears,

not knowing, not knowing, not knowing,

never knowing

that which, perhaps, cannot be known

though still is believed.

Even the probable impossibility of it,

is no deterrent.

We keep seeking,

probing the unknown,

because not knowing does not make it not so,

and, as of yet,

we are here.