by Warren Gaston | Jun 19, 2021
“There is a difference if we see something with a pencil in our hand or without one.” Paul Valery French poet (1871 – 1945) One summer afternoon in 1955, Denton, Montana, I walked down a wet sidewalk smelling of recent rain, to buy a pen and a notebook at Mr....
by Warren Gaston | Jun 16, 2021
Do you love me? If you have to ask, the answer ‘yes’ or ‘no’ mean the same thing. The Christ asked Peter who answered in the affirmative and look what happened. The Buddha did not ask. He didn’t care. With the Buddha it was all about practice. The Buddha asked his...
by Warren Gaston | Jun 11, 2021
To live a poetic life one does not need to write poetry. One must be in a constant state of arrival, alert always in uncontested presence, every pulsing pore a point of entry, every sensation welcomed by a curious nerve. The practice of vigilant attending with a...
by Warren Gaston | Jun 9, 2021
When I was doing it, I was doing it. I did not take notes. Why would i? I was immersed in doing it. It needed to be done. I was doing it. I paid little attention to the sensations of doing it, not the weight of the hammer in my hand, not the feel of the smooth wooden...
by Warren Gaston | Jun 4, 2021
Duende, the shadow that is not absence but the opposite of light. Roots sucking metamorphic darkness up out of soil. Mineral density borrowed by the bone, unknown to the mischievous the brain, the earth pulsing deep beneath the world the vibrant ache of knowing you...
by Warren Gaston | Jun 3, 2021
I can say with sad certainty, sight unseen and news unheard, that today, somewhere in America, someone is shooting, someone is shot.
