9/4
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.
**
9/10
Weeks unfold days’ unending unfolding.
Horizonless dreams cradle seamless returns
to the waiting light.
**
Buddha’s gift: the presence of unquestioning silence.
**
9/19
Secrets and lies turn in sun light
to so much brushed off dust.
**
9/25
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
**
10/1
Some things
ought not be let
to go on—an empty bowl,
the executioner’s noose,
to name two.
**
10/2
a life
a world
alive
in the
palm of
uni-
versal
flowing
moment-
um
**
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.”
**
10/3
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.
**
10/4
Of this week’s griefs—name
a place, recite a name,
as I do mine…
“Let love and gentleness
shine in the wake….”
**
10/6
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.
**
10/7
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.
**
10/8
Lasts
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.
**
10/9
Looking up without
my glasses, the moon turned out
in double crescents.
