Threads

**

When lingering fatigue is simply given in to,

allowed, sleep willingly makes over our way

to its own, and rest finally takes root. So it is

in youth and in old age, 

though the cycles implied not only differ,

but for the latter, tend more and more to baffle,

which I’ve begun to realize is directly related

to the diminishing power of denial

to have its way, 

which leaves those of us now in an aging way

simply with the way it is.

**

The continued utterance of prayer-words,

mantra, if you will, 

a run of syllables, song or chant, 

even if denied as such, 

a handful of chosen words 

that of themselves uttered

trace the contours of the individual 

immediacy of finding one’s self as is, 

within the gifted arc of ancestral breath

that reflects, time and again,

the be-storied and unrelenting acceptance

to be heard there.

**. 

                                                                     

I can’t say I remember who said it

for me, but said why I study 

is to better understand what I’ve seen

and heard and thought and otherwise

experienced, so that thanks can tip

the end of the pen to show on the page

the teachers to be recognized as such, 

those threads in the weave

of this joyous way 

of the student.

**

—Ode to the folding chair…

Agape’, love in action

in the arc and swing of the folding chair

unfolded,

back and seat readied, 

legs claiming the certainty of place

in time-shown need.

Family, community, fellows.

**

Even in early February, 

morning lets light earlier, and evening

allows its lingering, 

more room perhaps for cold

to have its time before spring begins

to beckon,

though even so, I’ve seen 

on sunnier days, scattered blossoms 

smiling on the slopes, in certain trees, 

and seen bulbs sprouting vibrant green 

from beneath the moistened earth,

and not to forget 

the handfuls of words 

here and there heard humming 

melodies of the perennial.

**

Where I come from, Friday comes for us

with its own feel, young or old, working, school, 

or not, comes a momentum’s surge at shore’s edge,

readying to spend the whole of itself

in the simple slide and spread of elation let go,

even if negative, even if only implied, 

seeming innate to the species, traced in the collective 

of cells, molecules, atoms—but actually, really, old story, 

told and told, agreed and passed down as true, 

to successive generations of the unsuspecting “we,” 

many of whom individually

will let pass unnoticed

tonight’s full moon. 

**

“Awareness of disappearance,”

the poet’s utterance

Not nostalgia, not of cycles

native to us

Not of blood or age or birth or death

but awareness of loss of 

the native

Of petals, roots, paw-print, of leaf,

of language,     of peoples

Of ways close to earth and sky who care, 

are cared for in return 

Loss of ways of seeing, of being,

for nothing more than

convenience, greed

Awareness of intentional erasure 

**

I’ve never seen myself as standing out

from whatever stream flows

about me—have been fortunate, loved,

have learned and continue to learn

through listening.

And although the moon tonight

is so bright, only Orion holds its own

in what seems a lonely sky, 

the moon still meets every eye,

holds every palm 

open to it.

**

—Porgy’s Dharma

      “I’ve got plenty of nothing

       and nothing’s plenty for me.”

                                    

point me to the countless teachers’

names too bountiful to recall

where communities of living 

abound without boundary

where

there’s nothing to sell

no want to be sold

no treasure 

 that can possibly be held

**

Cutting between the playground and the school 

down the street from our home, opens a view

all the way to the expanding financial district, 

downtown San Francisco, and the SalesForce Tower, 

a rude reminder of this neighboring proximity, 

this morning catching the rising sun’s brightness 

from the east of the bay 

and beaming it straight down that channel, 

right to where I stand—an amazing sight, 

indeed; but in the end, all the sun, and all the rest, 

as they say, mirrors and tricks.

And glancing over my shoulder, the moon, 

still high in the sky, appears to concur. 

**

It’s visceral, unmistakeable—at first, just a stirring,

deep in a dark-clouded sludge of dormancy, then sparks 

and charge that ignite the turn into sun-drenched daylight, 

that revives.

Dramatic, perhaps, but the feel, for sure, of that instant 

when winter’s grip slips from body-mind like brittled skin,

and nakedness greets the gentle breeze inherent there.

And the world, as perhaps it is for Brother Bear, 

the world re-presents itself in all its glittering entirety.

What a time to be alive, indeed—and too, 

what a time to die.

**

We planted this almond tree by the fence

along the street in the front, in a year gone now 

from memory. Each year since, the almond 

is always first to bud to flower, never forgets.

**

Nothing comes today 

that piques the pen’s fancy,

but I push anyway,

pressing the final pages

of the journal for clues,

whatever it was that freed

the morning of its earlier weight

seemingly having lifted with it,

traceless—no mist, no smudge,

no place to place even a single word,

other than the foregoing, of course.