Nothing you see will last

Nothing you see will last

‘Tis one thing,

To say “the world is impermanent”,

Another to really know this,

To get it,

Like really get it.


Nothing you see will last.

Not your shiny new relationship,

Nor your young beloved pet

Even your sweet and innocent children

may not make it to old age,

however painful that thought may be.

Nothing lasts in this world,

Why bank your happiness on it?


Nothing you see will last.

That glacier is dying,

The mountain changes minute to minute,

The pyramids turn to colored dust one day.

Nothing lasts,

Are you listening?

Nothing lasts.


Nothing you see will last,

These typing fingers are disintegrating,

This form you call me a time bomb

About to blow up the minute you look away.


Nothing you see will last.

We poison our water supply,

The trees are dying at frightening rates.

I could not bear to live without this forest,

What would be the point?


Impermanence Rising

Impermanence Rising

Nighttime in this empty house,

Impermanence focusing,

All form has it’s shelf life.

These bodies, that tree, the mountain I rest on or the greatest ocean,

will pass away into the Light

Including the Earth one day.


The opposite of death is life illusion repeats over and over.


The opposite of death is birth,

Life greater than passing forms,

Can’t you see that?


Sleep came late that night,

Awakened abruptly by my barking little dogs,

The front door being pounded,

My name carries through the dark.


“They spread so fast,” I heard her panicked voice from the street.

“Where is the fire”? I ask moving across the deck.

The young one points down our forested street

As she jumps into his older silver compact and disappears.


Too fatigued to get excited,

I walk to assess the midnight threat.

Stunning marigold fireworks shoot above the Ponderosa pines-

Oh my.


A fireman struggles with his heavy canvas hose,

A nightgowned neighbor runs by frantically yelling,

“Wake them up, wake everybody up.”


A house, tucked in the woods, fully engulfed,

Framing falling,

Ephemerality making her dramatic point.


The house had exploded,

Roof lifting off, disintegrating and swirling around,

Scatttered perfectly intact completely blackened leaves our morning gift,

I am told the occupants somehow survived.


How the forest hadn’t ignited remains a grateful mystery,

We were saved and remain in this world.

What the fuck am I doing here?

A Weird Way to Come Home

A Weird Way to Come Home

She handed me a blue cloth bag,

An institutionally brown box, plastic,

smaller than the ones shoes come inside,

the heaviness surprised me.


They say that is you inside,

Your body I mean.


You were so thin, so sick

Do bones weigh that much?


I placed you on our coffee table,

When darkness came brought you to our room,

My room now.


Set you on the nightstand beside me

You hadn’t been here for so long.


As the sun arose,

I pulled you to my chest,

Wrapped my arms around you,

My heart felt full and warm.


August 16th, 2016

Note: I sent this poem to a close woman friend the night I wrote it. I received her reply the next day:

This morning as I awoke I “heard” Jeff say:

That is not me…and I understand in your material world it’s comforting to have some thing more dense than I am now.

I am here…I have always been here.

I am here…I have always been here.

One Hour

One Hour


Oh Honey,

Please come back.

For one hour,

Just one hour.


I need to hear your soft voice,

I need you to lie with me, hold me,

Be with me.

For one hour,

That shouldn’t be too hard.


“At the end of January he died”, I told them,

Not “his body died” as I was saying before.

My breath caught,

You were gone.


I forced myself to go out as evening descended,

Shuffling along,

Dragging the heaviness of me

Towards the lake.


You were using the power of my desire,

As the pulsating pale apricot sun moved slowly to mate with the evergreen mountaintop.

Now sitting next to me

On that fallen tree.


Looking up into your loving brown eyes,

Sobbing grabbed at my chest and throat.

It hurt more to see you.


Looking towards the lake,

I told you how hard life was since you left,

There was always so much to do.

Each night, as I leave work, the hollowness appears.

No one will be home to receive me,

You wouldn’t be there to share about our day, laugh with me or help me sort things out.


I cried and cried,

The water gratefully absorbing my grief.


Sunday, June 19th, 2016