Scattered, then found—poems

October 2012

With stars

for companions, 

what standard of measure

might one ever devise

that ever really

measures up ?

**

Is it that light lays on leaves

and catches, or that light is caught,

that it dapples?

**

Like the lightest of breaths,

held so as not to disturb,

moon beams breathe on me.

**

Everything this morning speaks of space

—the gray sky swept aside for blue, the moon

rests high, showing just  a sliver;

clustered crows, barking dogs,

allow only echo; even curbside grasses

give way to beige.

**

Gina

Young, bright,

not overly certain,

eyes like sky

radiate promise

that fills all that befalls

their gaze.

**

For the grand daughter, Kawayan

Only twenty-four

hours past its fullest face,

the moon begins to “melt.”

I suppose this is

Indian Summer—long heat

over shortened days,

windows kept open

through silver-tinged darkness,

the kind of light

that shimmers

on high mountain juniper

that grow out of rocks

that glow like you do,

even as we speak

of the moon.

**

Out of the clamor

and confusion,

Buddha’s Name

blossoms…

Namuamidabutsu

**

Mid-October

Leaves, browned and fallen,

pack along the streets like doormats

thrown outside to be washed

in first winter rains.

But for now, still summer,

an invisible sun streaks breaking clouds

in soft pink, turns the tallest eucalyptus 

to shadowy, swaying silhouettes.

**

Orion is directly overhead

this morning—what direction

is that, Heaven ?

A dead mouse

on the shadowed walk

is really a leaf, parched and curled.

That adult over there

is my child, is loved, loves

and is torn—you’d think

that would be enough

to find the way from here.

You’d think.

**

Preparing for the service

with the old folks,

reading the poems of Ryokan,

wondering

if he’ll warm their hearts

as he has mine.

**

Shadows play, breezes weave,

through grasses dancing

with flowers.

**

My religion

From the street side

         of the courtyard fence,

beyond the flowering shrubs,

         in lifting fog,

children’s voices pass

         through the lingering mists,

pulled by a bell—

       

reaching,

         listening.

**

She don’t bite, he said,

and neither do I; but how

were we to know ?