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.