light seeps, no sound, into the room
it fills, rising in me its name, heard-said,
remembered even, maybe, more on the lips,
its trace the taste of breath along the tongue,
wholesome full word-thought textures,
intimacies of human consciousness of
human experience: threaded melodies,
at their best, of the larger concert, at their worst,
of tangled torment, pushing the boundaries
of torture: either way and both ways unfolding
the truth for us in the moment at hand
articulating: either and both, the contents-
foundations of poetry, of the dharma
of buddha’s many names, many ways:
and of this, in this, the depths and scope
of the what and the well-spring of “we”:
that each is always of the all, that
there is no one apart from, only ones a part of,
no thing passing beyond this net of reach:
un-articulated isn’t un-noticed, isn’t not
there, not taken in, and every heard-said-
telling glance or touch or sounding is one
rippled sharing told-heard throughout:
and as it is with rising light, as so as such
it is with the rest of things, of phenomena:
of the rock, the breath, the wind and skin,
the dust, the sand and the stretching reach
of the oceans and stars, all at work
in movements of association, relations, mutual,
untiring: where nothing more is needed,
nothing more need be done, where no one
thing is more special than
the breath-giving, breath-taking, ever-on-going
making-unfolding of the whole, where
as humans we get to hear the songs as sung
through us, and to sing along
with all our comings
and goings:
**
“In my wildest imagination, I couldn’t
imagine you.”
—Keb’ Mo’
Who would you say that to ?
**
A poet I once knew liked solitude
and slowing down, tried to cultivate
loving presence (emphasis mine).
Intuitively, he knew presence
is what we already are—I mean,
check it out
next time you wake up:
already there.
But the love—sometimes,
sometimes not—after awhile,
he got so divided, he gave up trying
and let go—there it was.
**
The periphery
resonates happening
barely discernible, yet
as real as the rest—
at the edges, just off-surface,
there but lifted, undeniable, but only
almost—like light passing
closed eyes, the curl of voice,
tilt of a head,
presence so intimate
only pointing tells—and even then,
not really.
**
—Laguna Canyon
A large willow
blocks late-falling sunlight,
chills day’s wind-soaked afterglow,
calling shadows too early
and fretting leaves to dapple.
Well to the west of the canyon’s run,
beyond the creased and rolling slopes,
ocean’s horizon waits
the patient decline.
**
Visiting the son and family,
I wake early
and can’t understand
why I can’t see
out the window,
until three hours later,
waking again,
and it’s now light outside.
Easter morning.
**
The canyon slowly peels
its dark blanket, rugged rock
and brush naked clean, calm
under ocean fog—passing cars
calling distant waves, chimes silent,
limbs, leaves quiet, still—prayers
waiting to waken.
**
—Crenshaw Blvd., LA
First sun spills
onto the motel parking lot,
tells me out is east—for now,
not the west always talked about.
**
On the morning of
the daughter-in-law’s
fifty-third, a thinly feathered seed
floats almost invisible
just above the paved road
my feet meet, lungs drawing
freely from passing winds too.
**
Spring brings big winds here
on the peninsula between the bay
and the Pacific—they run
the inland hills over and down
in whirls of fury, then cease
in mornings like this clear quiet
bowl of contentment.
Our eldest recently wondered
aloud with us at all his life has offered,
as we two watched his matured face
and continued to wonder at the wonders
life has brought us.
**
From here and there,
even in the low hills round here,
San Francisco’s skyline,
those taller monstrosities
that didn’t exist
when I first arrived.
But early mornings,
when they catch all they can
of the rising sun
and have the balls
to shine it back, I almost,
can almost, forgive them.
**
If everything ever
happens in the only way it can
in circumstances at hand,
how do we know spontaneity
and habit from one another,
and even if we think we do, know
we’re right?
Some might say—I’m thinking
right now anyway—that question
is far more telling than any answer
maybe coming our way.
**
The flicker of delight
in doing
is all that’s needed
to make it all
worthwhile.
**
There, for instance,
the colors, lay there
just outside
along the fence
in the still light chill
left behind by night time
winds,
petals,
the imperceptible
hum of living vitality,
waiting no thing,
no one, even the sun,
which will be taken,
as, if, given—
living happens unto death,
with no one target,
no near, no far—
just the hum, draws us along,
the hum of multi-voiced question,
asking, testing, tuning, re-tuning
to the next-come variation.
We hear it. We respond.
**
—Mills Creek, Mills Canyon
The big old bay still drinks
the rush of the stream’s trickling,
its trunk long torn and broken,
thick limbs lying across the trail,
still reaching to the canopy
for open sky, where birds
still fly by.
**
The hills rise precipitously
where the road arcs sharply
down along the lower canyon
rim, where the stream runs
fast most winters—above the trees,
rock outcrops and green blush
lingering in the grasses.
Breeze and wind weave and shiver
as like from the unending troubles
we make in the world, silence,
as always, biding its time.
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