Wednesday, August 28, 2013

Heart Beats

The Heartbeat Sutrafor Sandino,
                                                  July 2013

I’ve heard it said, Grandson, that Buddha once said,
as he sat at sun’s rising, that heartbeats transmute
and all else follows—and in that gathering

of waiting leaves, of night let go, Buddha paused
to watch the words and all they were
return to the wonder of beginnings,

then turned his hand to raise a flower 
to meet the gaze of eyes been raised
to meet the bluing sky.

And so it is with you, in the ease and offering
of your infant sleep, the same
throb and promise.

As half-finished darkness holds silent the house
and all around us has paused,
the gentle curve of your open-cupped palm

reveals the assurance, the articulation
and the wonder of the beginnings
of our beating hearts.



Silence allows hearing,
stillness permits sight and touch
and the generous capacity to speak
enables navigation of the oceans of words
that define our humanity—left, right,
up, down, beginnings and ends—where
would we be without this ?


Turning in ever-tightening circles,
trying to site the source of the blinding cacophony,
I finally find its voice 

to be my own—and in this startling release,
relief and ease, begin to discern
its song…


flowers dance…

stems bend to winds
afloat with fogs

and dew
that gladly coat

the needled pines,
got drunk

on the breath of gods…


About attitude

Not so much to write poems,
but to write to see what comes—music or dissonance,
though not the same, are of the same mouth
and worthy of similar considerations.

Like time, the time to trace,
the time to witness the turns the words
will make to reach the page, line by line,
word by word, the world revealed, itself remade.


And of writing the day awake,

watching the light come in
where none had been,

unfolding across the sill
and on to the page poured over all over

with lighted words,
writing themselves awake

in the way of the coming day.


there’s been this voice

--all along I suppose,
         low-toned, unobtrusive, 
a most constant companion
         I’d taken to be my self,
and rightly so, I’d say—

but not the one I’d had in mind


Bodhisattvas everywhere

Slowly rising out
of the swirl of indecision,

of seemingly interminable
bait and switch,  to view

through the window
soft pink petals

atop stems some five feet tall 
and perfectly still, paused

as if to wait, to hear
my heart beat. 

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