Clouds illumined

 

Of course, 

the flower seems to say

its song is of the sun, of course,

but its song, nonetheless.

**

Sensei once said, “your shinjin

is your poetry—keep writing.”

I didn’t understand for quite some time,

till now, even,  

he was pointing to one thing,

not two.

**

Something dear dangles

silent truth there just beyond the reach

of the tongue, strangely satisfying.

**

Having never been long on vision, 

never long on longing for this or that,

immediate accomplishments (like getting up)

have paved the way of deep satisfactions.

Being together forever

is done everyday,

together…

**

With nothing particular to do,

we can do anything, so let’s do that.

Leave the door a’jar, the world’s already in.

**

Without my glasses, I know the hummingbird

by only its quick-shift movements

among the blossoms, each one, each one,

scattered along the fence, clear intentions

bringing focus to mine. 

But it’s not the stops; if so, she would. It’s

the movement it’s about, the taste, the thought,

the word, the poem—all about the movement, one

beat among the others of the movements of the heart, 

not where it stops.

**

A word here or there, a group perhaps, 

pre-sent, present-caught, amidst the flow,  

tell us something that turns the head to listen, 

and even if not repeatable, we know.

**

Spoken aloud words 

resonate presence 

inner and outer landscapes

echo.

**

Come dark, sun-energized lights that string the lattice 

work every time without announcement, silent appearance 

as quiet a surprise as a smile pointed your way that you catch 

well after it’s begun, an intimate tinge, the addition of subtraction 

of self-consciousness, like lines of prose found holding the music 

of poems.

**

I pretend

to know myself,

but no such luck.

My name’s been called,

and over and again I’ve looked

in different directions, 

though my teachers assure me

its the hearing that counts, the rest

working itself out.

**

The sun explodes Christmas morning

in bursts of illumined clouds of salmon-pink 

and reaching streaks that seem to speak 

to no-one but me—not a thing a’stir but the weave 

of light, solitary leafs, 

the shifting grey from ocean to bay 

and singular drops of rain.

**

It’s words relating that happens 

on the page and on voice-opened air.

In the limitless ranges of listening,

signals abound—like moss does to north

and petals leaning to call the south,

people speak to who you are to them.

Revelations can occur; reflection too.

**

Obi Kaufmann, California naturalist, artist,

activist, and writer, once said that poetry is

“the ability to witness and interpret interrelated

moments of insight brought together by epiphany

and serendipity” (I almost forgot philosopher).

As for me, Jerry Bolick, an ordinary california buddhist 

bombu, somewhat uncomfortable with notions of ability, 

of interpretive skills, poetic or otherwise, clear resonance 

lies in those gifted moments of “epiphany and serendipity.” 

My part, to simply be there, and to follow.

That said, I continue to study and learn from Obi, 

a fine teacher indeed, and no matter how he sees it, 

a true friend on the way.

**

Coyote Brush is as common as dirt hereabouts,

dense bushed reaching branches extending

fully curled with small dull leaves 

into a delicate pirouette,

pursed at the tips like the kiss

of a tiny green rose 

which in winter gives rise to tight white lips 

of new seed 

that burst suddenly splayed tangles 

of hair thin surprise and promise 

spreading the hills like snow flakes.

**

—Back deck observatory 12/29

Orion steps out from the south,

but the full moon

ranging high in the sky

grabs his light before the telescope

can catch it: this winter night

is the moon’s—Orion demurs

and so do I.

**

As morning darkness asks light to return,

I ask out loud outside, what year follows

this one—nothing answers.

**

—12/31

A late morning in bed

watching the moon find its way

in the brightening day, 

the final horizon’s rising of so troubled a year,

even the neighborhood dogs 

wait in quiet.