That glimmer of sunlight
in the distant window
to the west signaling
the coming of the sun
into the first-sent light
clearing shadows under
already clear blue skies.
Words occurring in relation,
things voiced and sounded and
revealing unfolding particularity celebrated,
Love—the urge to share
the heart-mind’s peace—poem.
*gleaned from the work of poet Cid Corman
We sit together in late December, watching light
slowly cover the hills to the west, awakened
in the time of giving
to the gift not recognized
till turmoil settles like the dew-like light
of this morning’s wintered sun.
Burdenless, the sustenance of this life’s blood
makes the world larger in its presence,
glimmer with irreversible trends
turned to vows that live in the very flow
we carry that liberates
endless streams of beings,
teaches all that need be learned
to quiet the excited heart
And in the evening, the staccato return
of studied practice and focused effort gives way
to ease the full-throated song.
The self, a story of itself, need not be tamed
but the plot let to broaden beyond its borders—let the self be
to spin its tale
and let the real play begin.
As if the mind’s breath swoons
in the swiftness of unlimited possibility
to forget itself long enough to see
it survives without holding on.
We give ourselves into Buddha’s teaching
through those who have gone before,
returning that way
to the bedrock of all existences.
I’ve not been able to figure if fog has pushed out the night
or the morning in. But here we are.
The same might be said for religious practices
or for the words we live in, if indeed there’s a difference.
Whomever presumes too much specificity here,
loses credibility in these eyes, though trends might be revealed.
Such as effort. Not some hard goal, simply
honest engagement, really doing it.
“Real work,” we might say, movement meaningful
in the doing--meaning doing us.
Rumi’s teacher asked for a poem every day, which they
then studied—his words-life-understanding.
Each day “marked and made conscious.”
Attentions given, explored as is.
Have you ever noticed the silence that follows heartfelt chanting,
any undertaking done fully through,
body and mind unfolded of itself into rest?
From behind the stained glass, night sky
pushes colors forward, lamp light reflected,
at times careened in unseen angles
or sometimes held flat, lit as if found out
as opaque, yet refusing to speak of it—like rock
often does, taking all the sun has to offer,
hour after hour, without flinching,
without asking either less or more,
neither comfort nor praise.
Words begin to lose their grip here,
are best abandoned to open-handed intention,
to bared attention—everything before having led here,
nothing lost, all possibilities remain.
Certain inclinations, patterns over time,
define unique fluctuations
in the consciousness of our world.
The yellow rose from winter’s garden,
when leaves are to have fallen
to mark the time to prune.
A pink blossom too, on the altar,
a communal sensibility speaking soundlessly
below the scrolled calligraphy
—the trusting heart.
The way friends along the way
help you through the rough spots
so that you return whole.