I Scream NIMBY

It’s one of those things that comes to mind when you’re really not thinking.  It happened to me yesterday; I had on my backpack blower and was  slowly working my around the house, mechanically blowing leaves ahead of me — fluff the leaves, roll the leaves, swing to the left, swing to the right.  Suddenly it dawned on me that I had a very, very large community of brown-skins residing in MY BACK YARD!!  Why hadn’t I noticed them before? Where’d they come from?  What can I do about them?

I tried to remove them with my blower; but even at full throttle, however, I couldn’t move the majority of them off the spot. They wouldn’t MOVE!!  Entrenched.  I feel helpless.  It’s an invasion. How can I get them out of my backyard?  I put down the blower and picked up the water hose: I’ll blast them out of my backyard with water!  Alas, a water hose is not a water cannon.  I couldn’t budge those brown-skins.  They just dug deeper into the grass of my backyard, refusing to move on out of there.

I backed off, went into the house and popped a top, contemplating my options. I decided to contact the White House, knowing how Mr. Trump feels about the brown-skin invasion from the South.  Maybe he’d create for me a United States Department of Acorn Control and Eradication, or ACE, and send 5,700+ National Guard troops to remove the brown-skins from my backyard, setting up a perimeter and patrolling the border to keep out the brown-skins from my backyard.

After waiting for weeks to hear  back from Mr. Trump, and really needing to get those brown-skins out of my back yard before they could take root, I got a rake and began the tedious task of forcefully removing them myself.

The Light of the Soul

Thanks, and please continue taking love-shots of as many beautiful souls as possible!


You are beautiful. Yes, you. You are. You may not believe it most of the time. I don’t even believe it about myself most of the time. But, I know that it’s true because I look at these photos and I feel it. I feel it in my heart. My heart tells me that it’s true. We have, inside of us, a light that is as bright and powerful as the sun. And sunlight triggers it. This is the light of the soul. What you have to remember is that it’s the soul that matters. It’s the soul that you need to see, and focus on, and show to the world. Now more than ever our souls mean something. In this time where there is so much focus on the body (COVID 19, George Floyd) we must remember that it’s what’s inside those bodies that counts most. In some ways…

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Not Today: In Remembrance

I remember Carob.

The Mystic Horse Chronicle

in remembrance

Having animals in our lives means we not only experience the special tricks and delights they bring to us in their living, but the crushing sorrows when they leave us. I have found death to be a very sacred time, rich with a sweetness of memories and magical surprises in the parting, mixed with a deep and raw sadness in the grieving. This short story is about my time with Carob, a very special horse, just after she had taken her last breath and became still. It has left me with a beautiful and deeply intimate memory of having traveled a distance with her as she left her body. It carries a sense of closure in one dimension and an opening of another that is as real in a mystical way as her physical presence when she was alive in body on the earth plane.

Originally published in…

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The Lynching We Saw

The truth. We need White male atonement; shed the hatred and greed!


Murder. We’ve all witnessed a murder. The evidence is clear. There are some white people who are afraid of people of color and that fear drives them to murder. George Floyd was lynched like thousands of others of his people. We witnessed it. Just as many of us stood around and watched the lynchings of yore. We’ve never reconciled that. How can it be reconciled? In my opinion black people have shown remarkable restraint. If they were all in the streets with pitchforks and torches I’d be there with them. And that’s what we saw last night in Minneapolis. Pitchforks and torches. When the 3rd precinct burned that was every precinct burning. I’m the son of a cop so I know there are so-called ‘good’ cops but this is not about cops. This is about human beings. We are not being raised right if this is happening. We are being…

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Portals {a story}

exceptional piece! Thanks.


Remember when your
arms moved with such grace? Remember when he held you like that? He held you like
a guitar constructed for just one song by an old Spanish master-builder who hummed
it over and over as he sat at his workbench in the candlelight, willing the thin
sheet of spruce to absorb that which he held for so long within him and saved, for
just one woman, a woman he never met despite his heart’s insistence she was out
there, perhaps sitting at her own lathe or loom.

He ran his lightly fingers
over your back in long, feathery brushstrokes. He traced your outlines. Your
thighs, when they were vases. Your arms when they were swans. He would paint
you in the mornings when the light that fell through the parlor window was
perfect for only three turns of the glass and then he would pull you through

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Essence of aging truth.


What you see is what you are. The ocean. Two holes worn through the rock. A set of jagged jack-o-lantern eyes cut not by hand but wind and water and time. Lichen-green eyebrows and a nose of stone. But these are not eyes, they’re portholes on the good ship Earth and you’re lazing through the galaxy watching life go by. Clouds and fog and the white slash of breaking waves remind you that everything is in flux, and even if you can’t see it happening the evidence of erosion and decay surrounds you so that you cannot possibly believe that anything is permanent. Yet you forget. All the time.

Compared to the rock formation before you, yours is the lifespan of dragonfly, and your very existence is equally imponderable, terribly fragile, simultaneously ugly and beautiful and sad. You know that it’s precious, all of this. You know that it’s already…

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