Tuesday, February 15, 2011

February Poems

An angel came last night

to my ear and whispered “love.”

I whispered back, Buddha’s name.

Last night in a dream an angel said,

“love” and Buddha’s name came to me

over and over, it went on

like this: whisper—name,

name whispered; love—Buddha, Buddha’s love.

Just a dream, I knew, but in the dream

I smiled, and was glad.


Songs come, they come

from where they come—so

sing, just sing

as the children do.


Stay with dis-ease, as long as

it stays, that is—

sometimes it lingers sometimes

not—of the many gifts of light,

shadow is



Of this life…

The challenge lies in the fallow fields

of the wintered heart, hardened by promises

hidden beneath its own cold crust.

Probed by the simple persistence

of the pen, turned, over time, to reveal

the multi-flowered faces,

the myriad silent poems released into voice

at the singular touch

of sunlight.


Not surrender, no, not closing

down; but realizing, an opening,

a fallen away.


As night’s blackness retreats, horizons

first emerge dark

against thinning ribbons

of salmon-pink, and morning wakens

across the sky-spread face

of the bay.


I’ve come to notice in the morning hours

before light or just as light breaks, or

in the evenings past sun down and the air

settling, Buddha’s name

rises readily

to the lips,

and that this is not so for me

in between, in the sun’s time, as if

Buddha’s work is more fluid

closer to dark, and otherwise moves

as all but silent…bubbles



From past notes

The abiding silence often spoken of, carries—it’s not

the reverse—it carries us, coaxes,

encourages along an inner current of vulnerability

that remains quieted, unless exposed

to lighted air, in an out-rush release of joy.



a certain sadness

seems appropriate enough

for it does indeed end

but sadness motivated by joy

is no barrier



So close a companion for so many years,

the writing, the poems,

I’d almost never have guessed it my way

or that so many would so readily see

it that way too—such sparkling newness

at this late age.



North coast forests crowd right down to the bluffs

overlooking the breakers

and the distant horizons of their coming.



All along the road, California Lilac sing

by their common name—blue-blossom.



“From here on out,”

wrote Issa…beginnings…

From here on out,

I will live this life, as given

in the poetry that is nembutsu.

No more “abouts”—that

I’ve done, can leave to others

—but the living, as given,

that’s for me

from here on out…


No comments:

Post a Comment