Deep in Portola Valley Forest

Short Stories

Though I do live in one,

it’s also anything but hot.

Weather cooling down as now

approach month of November’s

last Thursday – which through

‘19 used to be called Thanksgiving

I’m still unsure whether this 2020

will be among self’s strangest years

yet as family collectively tries to decide

Should we all get together….or sequester?

Thus, then just in case decision is to celebrate

Turkey Day, Pops got out his trusty ol’ popgun

plus went into musty woods searching for signs

feralest gobblers, autumns often frequent our local

wild oak groves: hound dogs unable to follow some

their tracks; for pretty penny, my wifey hedges her bets

to accommodate a dearest Israeli son-in-law who doesn’t

know from nada about that most un-American of holidays

bought only kosher bird left on Mollie Stone’s Grocery shelf.

i. Untitled

Long ago told by his father, 

Seek the golden key that will unlock

the door to your soul, 

the divine ruler kept predatory eyeteeth

in a rock jar in a monument 

soon to be toppled by earthlings

who’ll settle up before dirt settles down 

on the tottering despot.

ii. Smell the here and odd now of God.

Binge-ing on honeydew before bed…

sweet amber liquid is no mirage

when I am stepping into wet slippers

as you Rumi-nate joy post arrival.

iii. Reflections kouta 

— thanks to Tim Olmsted and David Cohn

Avatamsaka Sutras 

tell us we mirror 

what aspire to, right here 

this very moment.

If Ger sought rank in human 

value systems (rich, 

funny, accomplished, handsome

smart), he could be dissed 

as pretty seedy, riddled 

with hope well as fear,

disregard Sis, compete with

my other brothers

which brings suffering plus low 

self-esteem, doubt, shame,

pride and jealousy — no less

depression, self-hate.

Rumi urged: pass before you 

pass, die to worldly

grasping, rebirth toward feeling 

your peaceful divine.