“a man feels the world with his work like a glove.” 
From Open and Closed Spaces by Tomas Trastromer

The sun shines through my window,
finds me sitting behind my desk
and ruffles work papers 
with tiny particles of dust, floating in the air,
because they are simply there.
Like me, they hang,
suspended on invisible fingers, only there 
when light touches the surface of a finite thing.
To be here, I must be seen.
I may be fully present, acutely here,
in my own skin, but if you cannot see me, hear me, 
feel, smell, or taste me, if you do not acknowledge me
in some way, I am not truly here.

So, when I become present in the moment,
I must also be mindful that without you,
I am nothing, but a part of the ever-present universe,
the Tao, the nothing and the every thing.
To be present means I must also receive you,
to accept you and acknowledge you,
for the sun shines on each of us,
makes us visible to the world.
To be present is to see, to understand, 
to hang in the air like tiny particles of dust
suspended by invisible fingers of light.

— Paul Causey


words spoken out loud
spoken to the universe
poems become a prayer

— Paul Causey


My mother looks at me and sees only my father 
Our noses that settle the same way
Our lips curling into identical smiles 
Which I suspect now only looks like gritting teeth 
To a snarl
She sees likeness in our addictions 
The likeliness that I too never find satisfaction with just one 
My hard working nature distorted to hell bent 
I can not fault her hurt 
While my brain knows it’s misdirected 
My heart still fries in my chest as her glare peers instead through me 
How can I not hate my reflection 

My father looks at me and sees only my mother 
Delicate hands that move to create where she said crafty he heard manipulate 
Feels unease that at any moment I will be gone with the next spark of inspiration 
Call it impulsive 
Nothing to tether me here 

The flight home takes me each time to the pit of my stomach
Preparing to show up as the worst parts of two people 
The love from the other tainting what little they have to give me so each warm embrace instead feels ice cold 
Uncomfortable bones clashing like dead branches Morse code messaging me in the middle of the night 

The signal is received on this end and it reads “a battery two parts negative, never to work, with the audacity to even try for functional. There is no charge. There is no spark”.

— Harmony Hagadorn

The Hand of God


— Kim Mosley 




t r a n s c e n d e n t 
  s k i e s 

          t  r  a  n  s  l  u  c  e  n  t 

l  i g  h  t  


— Ksenia Alessandra Petrova

When The Penny Drops

And still,
when the penny drops,
I’m startled to find
how little there is to know
about our quaint genesis of life,
about our birth-forged resolution in death,
about how little we think we need to know, 
engaged for days and weeks and months, 
intent on obfuscation,
assumed impervious with the distractions called youth.

As year after year after year
living our silkworm lives
aging continues a hunger for its due,
patient like a feral cat.
Wary that there is never enough.
Yet never never matters.

So questionably we only flirt 
with pivotal questions: 
like how am I to be seen?
Does water flowing, know it has depth and tides?
Who demands to know (and why) 
the degree of wet that makes water moist?

Now, unquestionably close to being inactive, 
we’re told (or maybe I’m finally learning):
Penetrate the doubt.
Take comfort that inquiry permits response, 
that response enriches inquiry.

and as these days to contemplate,
by default decrease,
I’m yearning for a legacy, 
a koan-bred presentiment  
that’s thankfully saying:
to be content, 
there is no need 
to ponder if trees consider 
what water means to fish.

And still, 
when all is said and done, 
there is only a grace of spaciousness,
always a fullness of intimacy.

— Ed Sancious