Saturday, December 10, 2016

November 2016

A love story:

Just say it, she said,
way back then,
and he did, and so
here they are, all these years
later—just by saying it
the way it was,
so it is now.


“…there is no direction
                   forbidden us.”
                              Uchiyama Roshi

The bald-faced, unwavering conviction of connection,
agenda-less engagement of open hands affirming.

Not naiveté, but trust sustained attentively through time 
and space. The point of art: the arc of its doing:

fullness found in steps beyond choreography. 


Things realized 
                       catching my breath:

Separation is illusion, solitude real—the best
we can do is the most we can expect—less 
is usually best—notions of failure, met 
with deaf ears, works—hands truly ready
are always empty.


I wore one of those
snap-on safety reflectors
on my walk this morning,

a gift from a thoughtful friend,
given on faith that it works—dark

holds secret light 
that hides there,

unless you 
release it.


The light from the lamp
drops across the page

except for the permission 
it gives, which if withdrawn, 
changes everything—

as is so for most, you could say, 
or is it so, say, for those who pass unnoticed, 
unnoticed through so many centers, invisible, 
and then don’t—

does their absence then spell darkness, 
suggest diminishment, imperceptible change, 
or just zero—not even wind, cold constant, 
not even the sheerest petal
of consequence—

like silk , like silk that pours like liquid, 
to the floor, doesn’t reveal answers 
for the fall, 

does it ?


                             November 16


Chill-chased fingers
find comfort in the cut
of the vest’s pockets,

as vowels followed
for the sake of their sound
curb in settled tones

found on breath
granted fully the space
there chosen in the taking—

fingers too, loose and limber
in letting go, are not spent,
but ready for more.


Agenda: all the earth, and all that all
needs to thrive.

Strategy: listen first, listen long.

Goal: song.


Two days of hunkered rain, now it’s clear
and earth again meets our feet, takes 
whatever they give and gives again 
whatever takes us along our way… 
no questions.

Knowing a giving way opens worlds
where language melds and gestures
recognize, in kind, gestures intended 
to recognize.

As is so with all of us, each lift of the foot 
is vulnerable to its fall—friends
are found everywhere. 



Like you, I’ve been in dark places,
and the future—only as far as how long 
it takes to get there—is rarely marked 

far enough in advance to make best plans.
What I’ve learned 

is even the littlest light, if you’re willing, 
will take you the full distance.



Winters here are green: rains
clean bay leaves, branches push
to buds, coyote brush blooms,
mushrooms mound in dirtied white, 
bear berries bare their red
and hummingbird sage 
speaks its return 
with grasses and weeds
that winter these hills 
again in green.


When relaxed enough, 
those things we seek, slowed down 
enough, reveal themselves, 
as that bearded poet once said, 
reveal themselves 
when we’ve slowed down enough 

to receive.

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