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
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
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
—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
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
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