Featured Poems

They call it the nectar of the gods

"The substance secreted from the pineal gland during profoundly deep meditative states is known under various names in different traditions. Ambrosia, Nectar of the Gods, White Drop or Amrita—as ‘elixir of immortality’. This nectar, produced by the reactivation of the gland (through initiation, inner awakening or shaktipat), drips  down the throat and into the heart center." —Igor Kufayev



Nestled in on the Neskowin coast, 
I’ve been here for eighteen hours
staying at Jesus’s cousin’s friend’s family’s
vacation cottage. 

There’s an old swing outback
made from a car bench seat. 
I curl up on it and watch the grasses sway
until he comes to sit next to me. 

His eyes I’m looking at are new
from three weeks ago, but I’m sure
I know Jesus since some other life. 

Here in this one we walk down the  
beach to Proposal Rock sharing irises of saphire    
sky and hints of wave water sparkle. 

When we leave it’s nearly sun down. 
I smoke a bowl sticky with resin. 

He drives an Alero, white and long. 
We crawl through sleepy streets, 
maybe in circles.

In a yard babies shout
while a sprinkler glints in the golden sun
soup—we all simmer. 

Water drops fall on our
windshield and time swells
for just that block. 

From the front seat of his Olds I watch
the place behind my eyes get juicy
and a gush of ecstasy trickles
down my throat. 

They call it the nectar of the gods 
he says, his lightning bolts
brushing my thigh. 

I’m quiet with Jesus
(and these babies I never know). 
Enshrined in millenia-long sun-showers, 
I open my eye. 

Ash Good
“The most penetrating preachers”†

…they struggle with all the force of their lives

for one thing only: to fulfill themselves according

to their own laws, to build up their own form, 

to represent themselves…Whoever knows how

to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen

to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach

learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred

by particulars, the ancient law of life.

—Hermann Hesse


Today I lay in the crunchy leaves of this homey 

oak pulled skyward where branches sway sovereign 

and Chronos’ foot lofts into my world view. 


I walk through an exploded alder and sit alone

in the sculpted stump throne and finger the fresh

initials of a chain-saw weilding Lumberjack and mourn the grandeur of fifty years turned into 

raw timber pyre. 

We walk on the red carpet where giants 

gingerly perch, shallow roots in our Mother 

fueling endless triumph in a duel with gravity. 

There’s a creek and Chronos hears the future falling. 

When a tree erupts, years later,

I am here for the sermon.


† With great gratitude to Hermann Hesse’s
Bäume. Betrachtungen und Gedichte


mama earth, sacred spaceAsh Good
They Say It Is A Sacred Space

I always think it is beautiful then—
the big arches, the wooden planked ceiling, 
the long benches. The place I sing hymns. 
My kindergarten teacher stands up in front there
and says with the same conviction
that she names the colors that one day
(we just don’t know which one) 
we’ll all rise up out of here, out of our clothes, through the pretty wood ceiling, 
up to heaven to be with god. 

I always think it is beautiful there. 
Until I watch my daddy confess his sins, crying, then dipped clean, still not sure he is whole. 
Until I watch mama go kneel before that god
who hasn’t taken me yet, sobbing, surrendered, 
broken. The frail old lady behind me
has a perfect silver updo and her voice
sings Soprano. Holy. Holy. Holy is the Lord God Almighty. The man is red faced while he yells
about the ways I should be. 
They say it is a sacred space.

I roll out my afghan and light
a dollar store Jesus candle. 
When I burn the palo santo
this place is sacred. 
When the spot in the center cracks open raw
my grandmother’s grandmother’s great-
grandmother sings with me, 

Remember sweet child, remember you’re okay, 
and you’re the whole thing. 
Everything here is just for you
to remember—
you made it just for you
to remember—
When you die you return to
read these words you forgot you wrote
to remind you that you’ve forgotten
you’re love
and nothing else

They Say It Is a Sacred Space c 2017 Ash Good.