Monday, October 19, 2015

September Into October


And so, with nothing left 
to be done, one might then
make marks here and there 
across the open spread page,
leave songs or other signs 
for those who follow. 



Weeks unfold days’ unending unfolding.
Horizonless dreams cradle seamless returns
to the waiting light.


Buddha’s gift: the presence of unquestioning silence.



Secrets and lies turn in sun light 
to so much brushed off dust.



It would be a lonely world 
without the written word,

he writes, then looks up 
to see 

what the purple blossoms
say about that.


those who love you make you special



Some things

ought not be let
to go on—an empty bowl,
the executioner’s noose,

to name two.



a life
a world

in the
palm of




Waiting for the Mexican Bamboo
to unfold, watching ripening stalks
wave their wish 

in air 
empty of all 
but waiting.


Asked which group he’s with, he says, 
“the world—a table for one will do.”



Readings on Basho

I’m not so certain 
what simplicity means,
but would say to you to find 
what’s essential for you. Then,
stay the course.



Of this week’s griefs—name
a place, recite a name, 
as I do mine…

“Let love and gentleness 
shine in the wake….”



Up before the sun,
street lamps, moon and Orion 
all look down.


I remember a morning
that seemed a lot like this one,
without the memories though.


We camp on Mt. Diablo

under sun 
that weights the tops of tarps 
strung between the trees 
where gnats gather 
to tell stories.



The sun drops quickly this evening,
lifting silver through rippled waves of clouds
of charcoal hues 

that mantle the ridge in shadows
that call the air to chill, till night 
arrives for real.

Robert Lax wrote mainly
for himself, to understand better
himself in the world.

Flat. Ordinary. Commonplace. 
The exchange of energies most common, 
most overlooked. And yet  

no less than the foundation
of communal networks 
of sustenance 

that prompt every expression 
ever—the roots of praise,
home-place to worship.




Well, the painters start today, early,
on the old family place in the city. Last time 

for us, we tell the kids, no more 
paint jobs on our watch.


Ten minutes on a Thursday

The older man walks slow, soft
rounded belly. The younger one drops 
a skateboard to the street, before his feet. 
People bustle, traffic ripples. Sun warms 
the interior of the car, and MacDonald’s 
flies three flags. Parking meters 
kick in at 9.


As I deeply reflect,

it was Sensei, it was,
who opened a door so wide 
I’ve been inside ever since, 

even when lost. 
So it’s always been OK,
every return quite natural.



Looking up without
my glasses, the moon turned out
in double crescents.