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

saying…