Poems, I write them…
Or, do they write me?
Do I visit Isle, Bainbridge place?
Or, does it visit its all on me?
I feel your stones songs & bark words
Your blues & winds & greens on sea.
I am finding you, the One, here,
Great actuality, as taking, holding me.
As I rush to conquer other worlds
But pause not to see and stop
Rushing past the end, self-slavery.
You, here, now, Original–grasping me…
You that enters & finally, more fully
Inhabits gift-faith; all us, as we!
(And though I do not will it)-
These back door entrances
The sideways unseen seen-
Your way of coming, Hidden…
You, Being, for us, unveiling
all we cannot, alone, see, or be.