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Surround me in sweetness,
the sounds that roll from summer birdsong
and open in my ears like morning glories,
wet with some secret knowing.

Surround me in the smells of the marketplace,
rich with spices, cardamom and cinnamon,
touched by the luring fragrance
of bold jasmine and the shyness of dripping lilies.

Surround me with the shimmering laughter of children,
sheaves of golden harvested wheat, the hopes of toeless painters,
the pure love of broken-hearted poets, fingers drenched in warm honey,
wet with the pollen of the bumble bees’s graceful mourning.

Surround me with the eyes of the woman I adore,
those dewy, doe-eyed streams that sail me through
the oceans of her heart.

Surround me with the miles of smiles
that she has given to me,
like some sacred, priceless work of art,
wrapped in the velvet of a butterfly’s wing.

Surround me in this foreverness,
when the garden of my heart
began to bloom again.

I have noticed
how each day
of my life
is delicately sprinkled
with hidden messages.

Hidden from eyes
quiet to ears
missing of taste
nothing to smell
yet completely clear
inside my heart.

To be alive
is a test
of how much
you can love.

If you sleep
all is dream
don’t be misled
what is real
is the Unseen.

Think of days without telephones.
No one calls,
and you don’t answer.

Old friends lead to old times
remembering who
you used to be.

Does an oak tree change?
Does it long to be
an acorn again?

Kindness is everything
because your life will become
what surrounds it.

What is now, is now,
that cannot be changed,
but what you do with it can.

When your life meets the axe,
it is better to die with your heart
than to live with your head.

All the things of this world come and go,
like infinite seasons riding a fine Arabian horse
through the ancient forests of dream and sleep.
As soon as I know something, it moves on
and I am again on the quest
for a grail of an answer.

There is no rest in this world,
only moments of soft breathing.
The heart in my chest beats day and night
to the rhythm of some distant dance.

There are a million stars
in one baby’s breath-
so why send a rocket to the moon?
Asking certain questions is better
than finding other answers.

Snow embraces pine needles
without saying hello.
I want to say less, do more,
and feel good about it.
I want to be the snow.
I want to soak in the aroma of the pines,
forget my name,
and bathe in the cold moonlight of December.

When I mount my horse,
cup in hand,
cover me in baby’s breath.

Oh muse, tell me of love.
What of the troubadours and Shelley and Keats?
What of Hafiz and Rumi and Kabir?
Tell me of women
and the heart inside the heart.

Three and thirty years have run
through these azure veins
and the beginnings of some canyon
have begun to form in my chest.
What do these geological formations say
about the state of my love?
I am a coyote howling
for the sweetness of the distant moon,
alone in this desert that is never lonely.

Some say that love between two people
is a guise for the Beloved, that we grow
in the gardens of the soul
from the roots of such love.
Oh Eric, whatever the tricky layers of geology may attempt,
you are forever found in the deep ocean of your chest.

Where you bleed,
something will surely bloom.
In the desert of this world,
always offer cool water to the lips
of the wandering rose.

We have all come to this place
by the mercy of the belly-button
and the breast.
Mothers know things
that add to the colors of sunrise.

Those who drink of real wine,
need no glass-
they see with the deep eyes
of the grape.

We are all like thrown ships-
be like the lighthouse to the storm:
a ray of hope in a desperate time.
The hole in the boat
is the only way out.

Ravens have always been misunderstood birds.
Like women who gracefully carry water home,
day after day,
never underestimate that kind of power.
Taste is very influential to the mouth.

Sometimes I love so much
I feel I will burst into blossom.
A single bird feather has a thousand
stories inside it.
Let’s think about that.
If you are a bird, what do your feathers say?

Can you imagine how water tasted
before plumbing?

I dreamt of you again last night,
and your hands turned into ravens.
There were feathers everywhere
and the journey home
was in the deep pools
of your eyes.
Drinking from that well,
I could happily drown.

How many times
have you tried to say
what cannot be said?

And how often
do your thoughts wander
like a boat with no anchor
across waters of broken moments,
resting on abandoned shores?

Maybe you are one of those
who keeps running in the race
that has no finish line.

Speaking, thinking and doing
occupies so much of this life.
The monarchs cast a great cloud over the earth
in their mass exodus southward.

What if there is something more for us?
Maybe the only thing really missed
is the one thing that never leaves.

Like a mass of migrating monarchs,
life becomes cloudy in this world.
There is another place, not far from here,
that irrigates the fertile valleys
of the heart.
Every butterfly prays to rest there someday.

Three flowers drop from the vase
and remind me of Christ.
Dropping flowers pray secret prayers.
You can find many threes in stories.
They move quietly like night
when it masks itself in the robes of dusk.

I am becoming attracted to quiet
and the deep song of the night.
I am beginning to long for more
by accepting less.
Some woods have color
that bring out my softer complexion.

No matter how many words I say,
any true reflection seems hopeless.
Dropping flowers pray secret prayers.
Candle flames speak volumes
towards God.
I am still rubbing sticks together.

Pomegranate blossoms creep
through the dusty streets of Granada
and I am in love.

I always wanted to be a bullfighter.
It is one of those things I could never explain.
Even now, when I hear one of those Spanish trumpets,
I get goosebumps.
Maybe they are bullbumps?

Red has always been the truest color.
Blood, blush, bricks and barber poles;
the shade of birth and love.
The red rose says more than all the poems
ever written by anyone.

Why do you think that bulls love red?

Sipping sweetly from deep, earthen wine,
Miles Davis’ “Sketches of Spain” at sunset;
it is just one of those things I could never explain.

Pomegranate blossoms creep
through the dusty streets of Granada
and I am in love, yet again.