Tag Archives: zen


The truth is,

T r u u u t h

So close,
if not for being C L O S E D.

Like a fistful of hair and bone.
Like an aperture
Judging the light.

Face it.
It is right in front of my face.
Clear as the nose on my face,

t h a t

The t r u t h is not.
It IS not.
There is no thing as the truth.

No angry hole of teeth
Spitting and chewing.
No compulsory feeding,

Pocketed and banked.
No allowance.
No righteous currency.

The truth,
The truth is, that the truth is

The space between.
The distance i am willing to go
To K N O W

My limited perspective.
Who am i? Who am I?

The veracity and mendacity of me
Stretching and bending
The distance between two points.

The truth is,
I am the distance between two points

Longing to be whole.
Circling around and around
The hole

Until the hole
Becomes greater than the whole
And i am traveling, spiraling,

Discovering that
It was always
As plain as the nose on my face.

November 2013

meditation colored

Consider that the greatest obstacle to our creativity is the illusion of certainty that we are programmed to seek, our addiction to ‘solve’ life like it’s a problem. Instead bring balance to your search by “being”. Then, simply look about. What you are looking for may be closer than you think. And how big of a problem is that?

"Two Parallel Lines Extend Infinity" by T. Boehle oil on panel 2010

“Two Parallel Lines Extend Infinity” by T. Boehle oil on panel 2010

She cut it on a milk bottle that slipped from her hand as she lifted it out of the insulated metal crate that sat beside the front door on the cement porch.  I was there and heard the crash of glass and saw the milky white spill across the grey cement and run down the front steps.  And then there were three big, bright, brilliant red rubies; perfect spheres against the dull grey cement.  Caught in the sun they sparkled and danced and I was mesmerized.  My friend pointed to the jewels, “Your mama ate a penny”, she said as she pointed.  “That is why her blood’s so shiny.”  I looked up to my mother holding her badly cut arm and watched the blood level its way to the end of her elbow and drip like a leaky faucet.  Crimson droplets fell into the milky white pool.  Fine, tiny veins grew like rivers with banks bathed in pink.  It was so pretty, this white puddle painting streaked with pink and dotted with blood red.  I saw her differently that day, as artist and performer.  My mind full with the vision of her eating pennies like popped corn.

Everyone wears t-shirts.  Some say clever things, some are advertisements, and some are plain.  T-shirts always have four openings.  One for the head, two for each arm and one for the torso.  Baseball in considered America’s favorite pastime.  The balls are distinguished by hand stitching that covers the ball’s circumference.