The other day I went to stand 

Before the mist shrouded monster 

I thought of his great power

The divine terror

I beheld the wake of his violence

I thought of the little lives he took 

And I thought that we are not so different

For the same violence of the old earth 

Dwells in our hearts 

After all, what is the soul of man,

But the life of the world?



A Murky Beauty

I think that there must be some cosmic beauty in the human being

If all things are the many faces of that one great life,

Then the strange and mysterious beauty of God dwells within us

But one must withdraw from the heat of the writhing mass to see clearly

To align our vision with the truth of things, beyond the narrowness of our human affairs

And behold ourselves as the stars might, as a crawling microbe on the face of a great stone

And to see the grander beauty in the dreaming and the dying, in the cresting and falling waves

In the loveliness and the atrocities, the ceaseless striving of the world 

The divine madness



The sound of the October rain floods the dark forest 

The wind and rain are kin to the creeping death that swallowed the emerald wood

And the splendor of summer lies down to rot on the forest floor

To begin their radiant homecoming like an ocean of fire, all amber and gold

Here is a moment in the great circle, like a spent breath of the great spirit 




The trees mirror the great life of the cosmos, in their forms is the truth of the world

This is why they are a source of a very deep kind of wisdom

And why much can be learned from them by those who know how to listen

In the million leaves of the old maple one may see the million forms

In the long twisted growth of the old branches one sees the striving of the world

In following the lines of the branches one may see that all things flow from one source

Yes, it would do us well to relearn the wisdom of trees




I think that there is in the singular splendor of dawn, 

A divine clarity, a view into the living heart of the world 

When one may sense in those sacred moments the presence of that one great life

And know that the million things are the million faces of God

The shifting hues of the great firmament 

The diamond-strung tapestries of the dew-soaked webs of the spiders

The dancing mists alighted by the rays of the great golden fire

The avian symphonies that echo in the emerald wood

The quiet steps of the amber doe in the golden meadow

All things constituting the immense, living body of the world

The sacred flesh


Pantheism Pt II



I suspect that there is in all things the presence of the divine

But that at various times for various reasons it can be easier or more difficult to see

It is clear in the quiet power of the young buck’s soft steps across the open field

In the call of the crows circling overhead, silhouetted by the dying light of evening

In the song of the running river that wades through the gates of cottonwood

And in the deep and mysterious beauty of the forest itself

In the rich amber of the turning maples of autumn,

And the stoic repose of the old evergreens that will weather the winter

Here, ever clearly, is the divinity of all things.


And so I suspect that this divine presence dwells in man as well

And that here too it can be easier and more difficult to see

In fact I feel that it is often most difficult to find that presence in man

Though I have come to believe that this is more to do with the prejudices of thought

And has little to do with the reality of things

For what has poured forth the the shining cities of the world,

But a curious manifestation of the same great life that births the emerald forest?

The glittering glass towers and the ancient earth flow from the same mysterious source

The ceaseless creation and destruction, the endless striving of God



To sit beneath the emerald canopy and the great pillars of this rich earthen world

To hear the lone call of the raven drifting across the clearing from the fog draped forest 

To watch the winds draw the undulating shapes on the surface of the still pond

To feel the cool air in the lungs and admire the swirling shapes of the spent breath

Not far from this place is the human world, our world of dreams

But here, dwelling in the glory of things, beheld so clearly

Here is reality





In the brilliant gold of the autumn evening, the last traces of the dying day

Rake gently over a waterside scene

The blades of grass bow delicately in a quiet breeze

The low sound of rustling grasses fills the air, accompanied,

By the rustling of leaves enlivened for one last dance before death takes them home

The image on the still blue abyss is broken by the footsteps of the heron,

Called from the skies for the good hunting by his suprahuman intelligence

A set of leafless branches rise black against the fading blue of the clear sky

Above the ensemble a trio of crows ride the winds to a distant horizon

I know that all things are God,

The endless turning of things is merely the outward form of the endless striving

The pale sky and the deep earth and all things between them



For this is the way – the gift – of also knowing the nature of the rotten: human, animal, land. Of the need, sometimes, to cleanse, perchance to cull. 


Do not pity the writhing mass

Neither are you to help what should die 

The sprawling depravity

That spreads like a sickness on the face of the earth

Let the hurtling mass dive headlong into the black

Or help it to die faster when you can

Foment chaos and destruction among the sickness

And the earth shall be thankful 




This world we have wrought would perhaps shock even Faust

Trading what is great and beautiful in us and the world for our pyrrhic victories

Losing our place between the great vaulted sky and the deep earth

It was our gift to dwell in the glory of things, as a note in the sacred song of the world

To share in the flesh of the world, as our ancestors before us had done

For we have not always been wretched, and when the night comes for the day of man

We may be able to say that there was some  beauty in us among the calamity

If you wish now for some greatness and beauty you must find that ancient place again

Not in the tortured world of “Man,” but where the cold blood of the old mountain runs

Where the great green pillars that hold the firmament may be found

Following the footsteps of the coyote or the great amber buck

Take the blade to your cherished “humanity,” cut it clean off 

Let your blood soak back into the dark soil, rejoining the beating heart of the world

This is our beauty, our greatness