Wind blown

Wind blown…March into April

Low fog lifts, day light

descends, moist leavings tracing

each step into spring.

**

Big Dipper—floats in

dark skies, turns, tilts, never fails

to point the way home.

**

Promised fog arrives,

blanket-shadows morning light.

But for one west-placed window,

ablaze with a different dream.

**

Breath as sound…

suggestions of elegance, to be sure,

but the old masters took note

of a certain radiance—visceral, joyous.

**

What we offer over

in the world

is the whole of our living,

every time—our mistake

is thinking

it’s not.

**

The poet strives

to make words say

as much as he would

have them say

and trusts 

that desire they ride

that makes them say

all the more.

**

what winds of circumstance

pull from our hands,

frees us

**

Glow burn—a sudden rush of rightness

splays light through dark

disappeared—forgetting words

that would write this right,

I draw these instead.

**

Studies in light ask

for light-handed inquiry.

**

Watching the inmates…

the open page takes

everyone, just as they are.

Heads bow, words begin.

**

The body drags itself

out of sleep these days, full

with windswept pollens.

Miniscule puffs of life

circulate, settle and collect—like

the weight of age.

**

Time bends—deep purple

strokes in the wisteria,

darker than before.

**

April 8^th and already

multiple pages,

meanderings of a mind

set free at the tip of a pen

to simply speak—simply

to speak simply, of itself enough.

**

April 13^th

The celebration

The day opens on tides of quiet light

and shadowless blue—hushed bird calls

echo blessings already underway.

*

For Erin and Edwin

The range of light

attributable

to laughter,

to smiled embrace, 

close-knit warmth,

to the firm press of lips

and casual words of tenderness

spoken in witness

of the tenuous reach of darkness

as eyes meet in the glow of love.

**

To  Leslie—afterthoughts

To think—this spontaneous

ingenuity so troublesome

holds unopened avenues

of collective salvation,

one whole one at a time.

*

Sincerity—effort

to make inside meet out.

*

Faith—trusting sincerity,

wherever we find it.

*

Amen…

for even just one voice

among the many varied turnings

of that light that outshines the sun

just so.

February and into March

February 25^th

This the shortest month,

though not as short as

could be

rushes to close,

leaving only

glimpses

where we’ve been,

the way headed,

except

for now: forever

rainless skies and a brim-full moon

of patience.

…and into March…

A song for the manzanita—

five faces, one hill

When I contemplate the life-length of this mountain,

the seventy years it took me

to smell its dust

like this

do not rise

except to its reflection—we together

or not at all,

not at all ever alone.

**

“Stars,” for us,

but traces, really,

of what stars really are.

**

Waking in the night

from dreams of frost covered hills—

the sheen of moonlight.

**

Study, paperwork,

a walk and early planting.

And while standing in the kitchen

before evening chanting,

my life spreads clean

as the counter-top before me,

ripples

at my ankles. 

**

Buddhist contemplative…

No blame. We simply

get it wrong, and are carried

along just the same.

**

Light inside, dark out,

making mirrored images

where once was window.

**

Schooley 3/2/13

On the slopes in the sun

amidst the manzanita, he says:

“I bow to the mountain.”

**

Every thought, same story—like

streams in the darkened sky, trails

of ever thinning light,

precarious blessings,

angels’ exhales,

warmed whispers

on bared fingers,

fumbling

in the night.

**

Zuiken Sensei

That cigarette-smoking old man

studied dharma a life-time

or more. Or more.

Left accrued knowledge

to the page, opted

instead for spirit.

That unencumbered

breath rising

through his own.

**

Low fog lifts, daylight

descends, moist leavings tracing

each step into spring.

**

Because blossoms’ bouquet.

Because incense burning.

Because the altar’s quiet.

Buddha’s raised hand,

beside, the silent monk,

the gladdened heart, at rest.

**

Spring Report—March 27^th

As light lingers longer,

as sun betrays clinging chills,

your illness withers

and fades, dark winter dreams

heal in the hands of spring.

Re-reading borrowed words

Traceless in the night sky,

distance-hidden light,

yet to be heard.

**

Where words fail, gassho:

hand gesture of whispered essentials,

dance of timeless connections,

myriad unbound breaths

commingling whole beyond

conception—an ocean reality,

where “wet” has no meaning.

                               gassho: palms together

**

Sky…

the sky

doesn’t lie

takes in

everything

everyone

just the same

empty

**

Threshold…

Have you ever, at this time

of day—the sun dropping so early

below even the lowest slopes, light

shifting radical grey, sudden chill

fallen—have you ever been here

like this, and not turned

as to your lover’s lips

just as they say your name ?

**

“My shadow,” I call him,

walks the morning streets

with me, never talks,

never mentions his name.

**

Words

Though ill-advised

to try to make them say

more than they do,     they

often do.

**

The flag

on the pole

on the corner

at dawn.

Folds flutter—

breeze

barely

perceptible.

Presidents’ day.

**

Like this mountain

holds itself

and breathes me,

we can live

this way, alone

with others.

**

Shadows slant.

“Too soon,”

the wife says.

Day’s sun sets

south west,

moon rises.

Clear and cold,

chilled air 

calls the sky.

Crystalled points

of light

to help us

find our way.

**

Hanging out with the poet—

watching the moon with Tu Fu,

some twelve-hundred years between us,

the translator says,

as he tips and arcs its image

in tones as soft as its light.

Twelve-hundred years. Tu Fu,

can that be so ?

**

Lingering questions:

Does life unfold, or do we unwrap it—and, if so,

what does it matter?

Do I learn first,

or does my teaching finally teach it to me?

Can lack of ambition be achieved—can we strive

to be satisfied?

What have we done to deserve so much

light—and what of those who continue to love us, even so ?

And what does all this tell us of how we might better live

the time left ?

February poems

Early February, a Friday

I’ve got the day of the week right,

but can’t yet affix the correct number to it.

High clouds ride invisible winds,

streamed snatches of blue sky, rippled shadows

tracing the roughened face of the rain-soaked earth.

Dreams of names and of numbers

hold no more sway, yet none less here

than bird song or early buds.

Let them unfold in the music

that’s their very own, that carries them

all their way through.

**

…and bow…

They’re called “wall flowers,”

San Francisco region natives

that dot upper slopes

from early spring, or before,

when runs of warm clear days

break winter rains.

Four broad petals, innocent

shaped

as a child’s fingers might make,

white-beige

to soft yellow,

and a startling burst

of floral aroma

that says,

to only the closest nose:

that which seems

most unassuming, may be a signal

to slow down,

to bow.

**

“Everywhere is the silencing

of ideas. That is Buddha.”

                           Thich Nhat Hanh

Wanting, in the morning quiet

of my study, to follow this,

and your voice speaks my name,

sets down the book, closes…

**

February first

The resonance of chimes emerges

from the peripheral silence,

presence alone speaking everything

of consequence,

before and after resting

right here in the pulse-beat of our veins.

Mythical vows of antiquity remembered

as if our own,

the gentle sadness and the joy

at having nothing, grants everything.

**

These winter mornings, the moon

stays high,

setting slow in the west

well after light arrives.

Night’s dew too,

lingers.

**

For David and Kaji

We swarm, we humans, we gather like gnats

in afternoon sunlight along the trail,

old friends and new

sharing stories of suffering and of healing,

here on the warm slopes

of the mountain.

                Buckeye Canyon, 1/30/13

**

A tinge of normal

returns to our world. Once again,

you correct me.

**

Nanao Sakaki:

Turn off

the street lights

and

moon and stars

jump out

in all their glory!

**

The heart, trusted

like morning’s incense,

suggests a newness akin

to the shift from night to day,

returning remembrance wherein

nothing’s forgotten,

a turning over within

ever-arching horizons

of timelessness,

almost incomprehensibly tender.

The new year

Just before taking you to the emergency room

1/6/13

From the beginning, the new year opens

without looking back.

Stars last night, Starbuck’s tonight,

tomorrow’s promise of blue skies,

and the slow working magic

of hot green tea,

sipped to the release of tension

into attention—the real work forward

gifted from a paper cup,

and  your hand

on my shoulder.

**

1/7

Sleeping on your side,

waking to the empty space

where I should be.

**

1/8/13

The crescent moon

slowly loosens it’s grip

on the night sky.

Muted streaks of pink appear

low in the east.

And straight up overhead, beyond

the glare of street lamps,

the last trickles

of star light

pull a smile and a prayer

to these lips.

**

1/9/13

Forgetting to close the curtains,

I turn out the lights

and suddenly see stars,

patches of fog rolled over the horizon,

hillside street lamps, and lighted windows

where people are awake, late.

Quiet beauties, here

where we sleep, missed

simply by circumstance.

We should do this together one night,

you and I—I’d give you your side back

for that.

**

1/15/13

Ushered by owls,

morning light reveals winter

oranges—a soft one

for your breakfast.

**

1/19/13

Learning from the pen

I lie in bed

in a swim of thoughts,

not just barely breathing,

but holding my breath, breath

held in abeyance, for,

for something other

than the swim—like a pen,

held over waiting readiness,

a pen held back

from certain resolution

as affirmer of the stream,

resolution in continuing engagement

with the body, home-place of its breath,

the open page.

**

1/20/13

Brief thoughts

You’d go

into

their room

at night,

listen

to their

breathing.

Quieter

than you

then, I

am still,

listening

to yours.

*

One-to-

one, ten

thousands

of times

over.

Each one,

every-

one, one.

*

If not

me, then

who ?

It’s not

about

saving

the world,

but it

does.

Doing

their own

thing—stars

light my

way.

Winter

mornings.

*

Karma:

action.

Of course

we ride

many

waves of

karma,

family,

country,

even

uni-

verse—yet

every

stoke counts.

Even

doggie

paddles.

**

1/21/13

The telescope pulls the craters closer to the deck,

here where I stand, just above sea-level,

where the moon’s pull back is so readily felt.

And there too, through the glass, a few clicks higher

to the left, the bright glimpse of Jupiter’s moons,

three of them.

Pull on pull, the responsive calls of heaven’s works,

the recurring, heart-felt tides

of healing harmonies.

**

12/23/13

William Stafford’s poems comprised various fragments,

seemingly errant tributaries that passed through

each morning, which he followed, or not,

seeing where they might lead, what lessons

might be learned, all the while listening

for the foundational source, the deeper river

he trusted most.

Year's end--2012

….

and what can any of us do but dream

of peace and act accordingly

and once again begin ?

…

                  Sam Hamill,

                   Awakening in Buenos Aires

Brisbane CA

As morning’s darkness

falters, an owl calls softly:

another end in sight…

**

Approaching Buckeye Canyon 12/20/12

The willows along quarry road yellow their leaves,

moist air lifts soil to smell, a jay glides,

swoops, gathers,

again glides.

Beneath my boots, softened earth

sounds its internal song,

but quiet holds.

I don’t know how we find peace, except

places like this, times, given

like this,

speak its certainty.

Tomorrow marks solstice, prospects of storms.

But now, today, that blue sky

swoops low enough

for us to touch.

**

Rainy day riff

Rain drips. Bamboo leaves

shudder under the trellis.

Roots take every drop.

What a life this is.

The morning whiffs of incense.

The wooden Buddha

from Bali next to the stone

monk from Thailand—both silent.

Sam Hamill’s poems,

five or seven syllables

per line, float the air,

drifting thoughtful kindnesses,

hard humilities.

Quiet presences

felt in the trail of the eye,

the turn of the page,

deepening shifts and 

hints of recognition of 

friendship, trustworthy

counsel, gratefulness he’s here

in the working of these words.

We’re the same age, he and I,

paths that cross, not match, meeting

in the landscape of common

tongue, nourished by the music

of rain-soaked bamboo.

**

How the afternoon’s

perfect feel of aloneness

breaks, with company.

**

Slow down enough to sit,

to come to that wider place

where pulse speaks, to listen

to the larger conversation,

there where words just begin

to do their work.

**

In the front garden,

white-petalled blossoms

bounce on the breeze

soundlessly.

**

As we lie in bed,

together breathing the morning light,

rains flash away

into the waiting silence

of heavy misted horizons

holding still in their place.

**

Insight

It comes like a leaf,

sprouted and mothered,

nurtured and exposed

to all its needs,

then let go

into everything

that’s ever been

there, finally whole, free.

**

Angkor Wat-Angkor Thom-Ta Phum

Cambodia 11-23-12

As we walk these old and sculpted stones,

imagining the fullest scope of human ingenuity

and expression,

cicada sing their whistled songs,

from within the leaves overhead, all around,

from before the rocks were brought.

**

Bangkok 11-30-12

The last day of our stay here

and thoughts of returning home

attempt to turn this day

into something other

than itself—“do something hard,”

the teacher says—“nature’s already

taken sides, the small things.”

Squeezed by limitation, 

the unlimited makes

for tasting that lingers, but will not

last. Do something hard, but

“not just anything.”

                              fom Apichart Sakdichalatorn,

                                   Every way is a way

**

Real teachers often carry

suggestions of weight so pervasive

their every gesture founds a ground

upon which all else appears to stand.

Not that they know everything,

but that their knowing is unequivocal,

not needing of anything but itself.

This can be as startling and as subtle

as the well-sounded poem

and just as meaningful

to be a part of.

**

Scottsdale, AZ  12/28/12

Well, we wouldn’t yet call it evening,

vibrant sun still lighting the clear blue sky,

but notions of softenings begin to gather

in the fabric of the air—birds, noticing,

gather too, worry amongst the leaves—perspective

is important when witnessing the falling sun.

12/15/12, a poem

Been thinking of you, all of you, and of the distance

that may be between us as the old year closes,

the new looms so close, thinking of the strange ways we

now pass our thoughts, the slow scratch and fold that served

so well for so long, almost completely supplanted

by these soft and immediate clickings.

Soft too is the color of the green here this time

of year. A break in the rains let me to the hills,

as I haven’t been for awhile, new grasses

pushing to the surface, looking to cover the slopes

in silent, steady waves, from bottom to top.

Coyote bush, a coastal, hill country shrub, common

from here into the Sierra, blossoms in December

and January, small, frost-white petals, bursting

to seeds spread across the dampened earth in minute

snow flakes. Red Christmas berries bunch in native toyon,

young hummingbird sage sprouts along the trail, soap plant

on it. And the blue-grey leaves of new sage, fragrant

and tender to touch.

I say their names out loud, these few I know. The season’s

so short, this seems important. The streams, silent in summer,

sing too; their tongues knowing all there is to know of this place,

their Bodhisattva voices carry every name,

forgetting not even one.

Higher in the hills, I begin to recall the carnage.

It might be the middle-east, could be the invisible

Philippines or some unknown African country,

but it’s Connecticut this time, teachers and children,

targets so common these days, almost anywhere

we might name.

With a President as thoughtful as our own,

I am saddened when he touts our military might

as a towering accomplishment, and more so

as he stands today, helpless in the face of our children

killing our children. As real as outside threats may be,

it’s a cancer on the inside that torments us—all of our might

cannot make this right.

Something different need be done.

The News will chew and bite, encourage us

to swallow, as they diligently search more feed.

But what matter the motive, when the method

is readily given; what matter the method

when the solution is imbedded

in society’s psyche

as viable.

Broken bodies litter non-combat zones across the globe,

school yards just one. How many names, how many the lives

as brief as interludes, snapped shut—we are not different

in this, and any indifference marks complicity. This

is not the heritage I wish to protect—it is this

that needs breaking.

Whether ensconced in constitutions or lodged, abstract,

in folk-laws, this cancer will have its way with us

and within the lives of those we influence, unless

we learn to call it what it is, aloud: ours, it is ours.

But sickness rides the same currents that healing does,

and in time all resistance can be recognized

as temporary. With this, and only with this,

comes the light that allows for creative change.

Just as winter is one word, but not a single experience,

our work needs to be in the deeper recesses

of the violence in our own hearts. There, and in sharing

as open and authentic as the working of streams,

we will find the way to the seeds

of violence’s opposites

and the beginnings

of a different way to be.

I am indebted to poet Sam Hamill, and his “Awakening in Buenos Aires,” which closes with the following:

“….to have come so far

to find again what I believe:

how things—slowly,

but inevitably—can change,

and how our hearts

and this world can, at last, be made.”