Tuesday, June 11, 2019

Breezes know their own...

Breezes feel their way with blossomed branches 
and bamboo leaves alike, gentled ripples

of morning after-light, soft-breath arrival
in the wake of a storm-spent night.


And the words, collected lettered sounds
relating; heard, envisioned, rhythmical waves, 
suggestions of meanings, always just there, 
just beyond; the collectively held, holding 
the collective—we. 

Even when alone, we.


After dinner, gulls glistened over the bay,
low sliding flashes on differing shades 
of blue—later, at home, in the back,
the darkening crisp of ridge line 
in night coming sky.

Startled by perception so bereft 
of periphery, I reach for the pillow, 
fold my legs, and hope 
to not chase it away.


After days of heavy rains, 
I can’t tell if it’s the moon
that’s naked, morning’s sky
or finally my mind.


A plan emerges, of sorts, 
settling occurs and suddenly
the coffee tastes better.


Though larger this morning, the moon
goes before day break behind the ridge,
a close horizon that determines much
of the feel of our days here—

I can’t say it dominates, neither does it 
hover; it’s more a presence-ing, 
an attending, a quality—

like how real personality offers, 
just by being.


Bottom line, I know nothing of poetics,
or of poems for that matter, except 
that I’m here, I write, and sometimes
some groups of words catch my attention
just so.


And despite all that’s said of gentle closured acceptance,
of warmed inner connections, it often comes down to 
you, me, alone, if not gasping, alone and dissatisfied,
unable to discern, unwilling to swallow—yet, and yes,
yet again, all this, nonetheless, this moment’s nourishment.


Light enters freely 
through wide windows,

leaves just enough corner-room
for dark to linger 

long enough to share 
its poems.


canyon songs

—from an outcrop seat
at the edge of town looking down

grasses and scrub waking to the sun 
clouds that part and lift the pale

ancient songs 
from distant lands

and the resonant calls  
of wind-swept walls—

for my teachers


of things that cannot be owned—

of pause, of quiet, of desire, 
of movement, and the continuity of moment 
shared there


so easily lost
as to be dropped mid-breath

yet so readily there
as to be retrieved

in the catch
of a finger’s twitch


Given time, whatever it is
this time, passes too.


Spring zazen—open windows,
passing planes and crows join in—

to think it’s only breath is to miss 
too much of what body-mind 
is saying to the world