Meditations from the Slow Lane

The new year--moving in

2012-01-17T08:20:00.000-08:00

Poem*

That glimmer of sunlight

in the distant window

to the west signaling

the coming of the sun

into the first-sent light

clearing shadows under

already clear blue skies.

Words occurring in relation,

things voiced and sounded and

joined therein—event—thoughtfeelings

revealing unfolding particularity celebrated,

proliferated…

Love—the urge to share

the heart-mind’s peace—poem.

*gleaned from the work of poet Cid Corman

We sit together in late December, watching light

slowly cover the hills to the west, awakened

in the time of giving

to the gift not recognized

till turmoil settles like the dew-like light

of this morning’s wintered sun.

Burdenless, the sustenance of this life’s blood

makes the world larger in its presence,

glimmer with irreversible trends

turned to vows that live in the very flow

we carry that liberates

endless streams of beings,

comforts passions,

teaches all that need be learned

to quiet the excited heart

to gladness.

And in the evening, the staccato return

of studied practice and focused effort gives way

to ease the full-throated song.

The self, a story of itself, need not be tamed

but the plot let to broaden beyond its borders—let the self be

to spin its tale

and let the real play begin.

As if the mind’s breath swoons

in the swiftness of unlimited possibility

to forget itself long enough to see

it survives without holding on.

We give ourselves into Buddha’s teaching

through those who have gone before,

returning that way

to the bedrock of all existences.

I’ve not been able to figure if fog has pushed out the night

or the morning in. But here we are.

The same might be said for religious practices

or for the words we live in, if indeed there’s a difference.

Whomever presumes too much specificity here,

loses credibility in these eyes, though trends might be revealed.

Such as effort. Not some hard goal, simply

honest engagement, really doing it.

“Real work,” we might say, movement meaningful

in the doing--meaning doing us.

Rumi’s teacher asked for a poem every day, which they

then studied—his words-life-understanding.

Each day “marked and made conscious.”

Attentions given, explored as is.

Have you ever noticed the silence that follows heartfelt chanting,

any undertaking done fully through,

body and mind unfolded of itself into rest?

From behind the stained glass, night sky

pushes colors forward, lamp light reflected,

at times careened in unseen angles

or sometimes held flat, lit as if found out

as opaque, yet refusing to speak of it—like rock

often does, taking all the sun has to offer,

hour after hour, without flinching,

without asking either less or more,

neither comfort nor praise.

Words begin to lose their grip here,

are best abandoned to open-handed intention,

to bared attention—everything before having led here,

nothing lost, all possibilities remain.

Certain inclinations, patterns over time,

define unique fluctuations

in the consciousness of our world.

The yellow rose from winter’s garden,

when leaves are to have fallen

to mark the time to prune.

A pink blossom too, on the altar,

a communal sensibility speaking soundlessly

below the scrolled calligraphy

—the trusting heart.

The way friends along the way

help you through the rough spots

so that you return whole.

Meditations

2012-01-17T08:06:00.000-08:00

All endings speak forward.

The Mound in Buckeye Canyon

The coffee is cold, but the thermos’ place in the pack, warm—just my intent

for this wintered mound, as the company is quite good.

Some 5,000 years deep in ancestry. Conversation is easy, but neither distracted

nor light. Better begun with prayer, song perhaps,

and that unstudied pause and collection that allows words to rise from the body

at rest with place and with time,

with all presences thus given their due.

From deep listening, such as this, right future can unfold

and be affirmed, right here.

A Gatha

Each morning I step

from the pole’s top to

a foot’s touch and think

I am not falling.

Foolishness like this

abounds where I live,

a most excellent place

to meet the Buddha.

My practice, sloppy,

sporadic, aimless,

I try to follow

only what’s given.

Resorting to trust

where I’ve really none,

I seek guidance that’s

not ever followed,

take refuge with those

who think like me, walk

an endless night, marked

with dim, distant lights.

Receiving unearned

favors and comforts,

offered to someone

not me, I take them.

There is no justice

in this, only gift—

humility too,

gratitude and joy.

Unexplainable.

So what’s left to do

but what needs doing,

as best I can, for

all who may need it.

Namuamidabutsu

Too short, a night run through with too long a stream of thoughts,

though certain epiphanies nonetheless, though none of which seeming

to carry much weight with the pen, nor influence

with the blank face of the page.

Disconnect is not real, but the sense and the feel, even so slight,

is not to be denied, however so slight the blinded flight,

the empty bottomed flush of fear, of isolation,

of meaning forgotten.

Yet, and again, doing’s being and meaning somehow carries

in this—the push of the pen to scratching, marks the dust of separation

with remembrance of the fullness of silence,

where dissolution of disconnection illumines

the immeasurable and the unmistakable.

There is the grey morning’s cold to contend with,

the constant start and thrum of the furnace and the sun’s long refusal

to touch distant windows to begin the day,

even as I wait without spoken complaint.

In the greater stillness winter brings, patience is its own test.

Butterflies in the making, just below the stiffened grass,

deep-seated roots at work in their own service, and the earth

preparing its surface for the rains to run first,

before the deeper work to come--reminded

in the quieted draw and release of breath, my body settles.

Still is not dormant.

Many things come to us in the night to affirm,

to allow doubt’s release ease to untroubled rest,

like rain, with its softest steps, that we hear first

as if we do not, then do, knowing it’s rain

only when we know our hearing,

as if rain comes a lightest possible presence

to wake us to our own, to that most safe harbor,

that surest awakening self as other.

A story

Stars are there to assure us night is good.

Moon too. They hold light till morning so that we might rest.

The night, the stars and the moon,

all for us, for all creatures

needing sleep.

Two small terracotta birds perch on the railing on the deck outside the window

directly opposite of where I sit,

shift their wings and lift their feet, and do so again and then again,

and each time I start and pause, then see the cup

lifted to the lips, each time a signal, a sign passed through glass invisible

but for this mirrored intersection of recognition

that brings into question lingering presumptions of difference.

Felt tipped pens glide like silk without the whisper,

but leave blemishes backside the page, excesses of ease

scattered here and there—for me, this does not do.

Ballpoint, a pencil, better for the effort.

Even the slightest pull speaks to work heard, words working

tangles of confusion toward the light.

Living leaving tracks,

signs, crevices signaling where its been,

where it’s thinking of going.

Uncovered interludes

2012-01-17T07:55:00.000-08:00

I’m told I use quiet words

but wonder, really, which those are

the world itself presents itself

as such so often, how else can one respond

the wave’s reach that seeps the sands,

the spray that’s given to air…

of these, as among the many blessings,

not one is loud.

That which turns me toward peace,

is my own rage

and the threat that speaks to.

Winter’s come, leaves turned and now

fall through mornings clean with the constant chill

of shortened days, the quickened pulse,

the reach for fullness enough to live,

just to live, just enough.

Buddha…

the name

held close in the heart

whose public face

is kindness.

The angle just so

catches the light underside

burn—a Robin’s breast.

Glimmering there

beneath nonviolence—

no harm.

How we hear

Just above the horizon,

under hovering clouds, a thin break

of clarity

the push of light pours

salmon-gold across the watery face

of the bay

draws me still, standing in the street,

waiting, a word, a name perhaps,

a voice surely

working its shadow-less way

through the certainties

of breath shared

of numberless becomings,

of the myriad possible tongues recognized

in the quickening

of the heart.

The Sufi

After the whirling,

the young teacher,

long-time friend to our guide,

answers our questions,

while the Master,

also now in street dress,

quietly serves tea.

Pressing to Harran, we skirt the northern border of Syria

at the Temple of the Moon God, pre-Islamic cult

of ancient astronomers overlooking

the high, fertile plains of Mesopotamia.

They, as do we, built gates, entryways

where none was needed—how much has changed,

how much not?

Call to prayer fills the room,

followed by light, by the sun’s warmth

that flows through every window opened,

to every opening heart.

Urfa.

Gianzatep, Turkey,

one of the oldest continuously inhabited cities

in the world.

Allah has ninety-nine names. Amida Buddha, the sutras give ten.

For those who still count.

In either case, in any event

what matters, is the name in the mouth

that’s speaking it.

All else follows.

Of this earth

2011-09-27T21:50:00.000-07:00

It cannot save us

from ourselves,

but it will

salvage the pieces.

It’s not the bad things that happen. It’s where someone reaches out in a human way

to someone else that seems to be charged.

I’m concerned with work that lets us be passively engaged with it because right now there’s enough in the world that does that.

I don’t think that’s what poetry is about.

Nick Flynn, interview, citation misplaced

The point of connection is always the same,

thought aside that is—we connect

essentially in action, in exchange, in movement,

spontaneous, unique, shared

even in difference, co-extending

currents of connections.

The poem, says Bill Stafford,

is that group of words

that catches the reader’s attention,

just so…

Getting it “right is not about thought.

The priest performed the service at the shrine of his deceased child

every morning, at dawn

…for years. He did not ask

for any comforting but said

the printed words of the sutras

and poured fresh tea

into the images’ cups, then looked

out at the sea and sky

and turned to his daily work

of telling the living to live

and the dead ones to rest in peace.

Edith Shiffert, from The Kyoto Years

Aspen leaves quiver

in thin morning light, practice

before the sunrise.

I can’t say if this

is what my teachers had in mind,

only that it is mine.

I believe what my whole life says.

William Stafford 2/16/82

Is this vocation?

Seems lately that all I’ve left is words

that lead me endlessly,

albeit beautifully,

nowhere,

run their course, leave me

naked, a singular pulse

in the world spread large,

awake

in the close-abiding silence

some call home

to the poem,

with nothing left

but to give myself

to it.

Butterfly wings, white

on white, flutter the courtyard—

shadows illumined.

Afternoon lies bright

on the deck overlooking

the high end of this small valley,

carrying light

the children’s voices

from the field aside the school,

organized play

made reckless and free,

affirmed as such.

San Pedro County Park

My path or yours?

The question was never posed.

The cat, lying large, center trail

in the sun, simply rose

and disappeared, leaving me there,

alone and glad.

The poet Buson

laments any day empty

of poems—possible?

Dreams are stories not yet lived.

Recollections sometimes speak of authentic innocence.

Each can be weighed in stories

now being told, adjustments made in their living.

First principles

The first principle at work is joy,

straight-forward residual of doing willingly

for others--the heart spreads, the mind rests,

each feeling more true

the matters at hand.

Though I’ve sympathy

for many named movements,

these I trust most.

It’s the light touch

that does us well, steady,

unobtrusive,

doing what it does,

as it does, we right there

at the rise of every breath.

Attentiveness is

not what we lack,

but who we are, bundles

of attentive receptors

responsively learning our way

the current shows

across the myriad pebbles,

among the rocks

against the smoothing banks,

the truest of our voices

always rising forth.

Owl Canyon, San Bruno Mountain

2011-08-13T15:29:00.000-07:00

It’s a soft gateway, slow rising slopes to either side,

winter wet-lands, now an easy stretch of dulled thatch,

a cushioned bed for the softest surprise of beige-green

blends of grasses, topped specific

with rich chocolate nuggets.

An artist’s pallet, to be sure, well beyond the range of this tongue,

and I wish for my daughter-in-law’s presence,

her depth of color-sense, to hear her words

over this familiar meadow, making itself

made known anew.

Dropping into the gully where the big bay lives and the stream,

I disturb some crows at rest in the high branches, who without showing themselves,

start up scolding and complaining back and forth in the shadows.

Startled myself, I say I’m only passing through, that I come empty handed

and will leave the same. But it continues, they continue.

The webs that grabbed my face along the trail

suggest few visitors of late, even the winter rains have run their course,

the stream dry now, gone—I have intruded.

I speak again, to offer a song, a prayer, and sit on the limb of that oak

in the deserted camp of the hermits. I chant so they can hear,

melodic as possible, but the crows remain unconvinced.

It’s only when I add the wish of peace

for all things living that they calm, only when I’m done with that

that they quiet and take wing,

leaving me alone to care for the silence of this place.

Coming out of the summer hills, where color

traces among mixed grasses, flies on petals and wings,

I arrive at the edge of the industrial park,

face to face with the red, white and blue, fully blustered

in the wind, beautiful, in its way

under the sun—I nod, so as not to offend,

but pass quickly,

quietly keeping my distance.

Sierra poems

2011-08-06T08:00:00.000-07:00

blowing along

blowing along...

a little butterfly

-Issa, 1804

From the Sierra…

good news, a breathtaking abundance of wild flowers, now at its height in this late starting season. Just returned from two nights and three days in the Carson Pass area of the El Dorado National Forest, a few miles into the wilderness, off Hwy 88.

The flowers were stunning, walking through garden after garden of color beyond words; and at both of the peaks we managed to scramble, just below 10,000 ft., we were met by the joyous dancing of high mountain butterflies.

Lake Winnemucca,

under an arc of illumined star dust

--the Milky Way

flows over our heads, tossed

and turned by night winds.

Well, it was light,

before the sun, the sky clear

of everything.

So I went to the lake

to bathe.

Night winds

pushed the last of the ice

to rest against snow covered out crops

rising a thousand feet

above,

the rushed and dimpled surface

now coming, as I,

under the early reach of the sun,

in witness—a kind word

for this kind feeling,

not to explain or capture,

but to respond in kind

to the love

therein extended.

All throughout the day and the night,

snow-melt cascades,

its mark, the silent stretch of granite

into the waiting sky.

Marmots appear with the first fall of sunlight,

young and old, each atop

a single of the scattered rocks,

each alone, to sit and listen.

A place of ancient prayers, a time

of refuge—wishes are sung here, hearts

offered over the lake in the many tongues

found in the winds—whispers, here received.

And as the birds, two of them, call out

three times, then turn to take their leave,

I turn to my bowed shadow to vow

not to go back to sleep.

Back in the low-lands, again…

Becoming not so certain

at all, of most things, any

thing, tentative steps become

the certainty, a certain

kind of dance, light, attentive,

wondering where the music

falling itself off the tongue

will lead, wondering whose heart

directs the next joyous step.

From where I stand

2011-07-29T06:09:00.000-07:00

From where I stand this morning

…clouds bank every horizon lower, every

suggestion of clear movement hemmed and dimmed,

even the surface waters of the bay, even reflection

lulled to dispersions of histories of agitations

…the child raises the parent still unresolved,

still searching the roughened patchworks

for silvered slivers of light, for the breakthrough

the child must find for itself

…after the darkness, doves

sheltered among the leaves, collect

stories of distance

caused by pain claimed as one’s own

and of the healing wanting there.

All things ever, pass.

Yet, even the slightest shift

or pause is the whole.

Crow calls free a sky

trapped in the lamp-lighted room,

taking me along.

For the long haul, how it works

is something answered by each

life as it is being lived,

that living the transmission,

the only transmission that’s

needed to complete that life.

Though residual signals

stand to benefit

every one within their reach.

Solitary life?

Open a window—ideal

as oxymoron.

Remembrance…

the bigger picture,

the one just so as it is

beyond the limitations

of perceived needs

the one

we are lived by and always

in relation to,

that remembrance

that living

of spontaneous care

of just what has been given

to one.

“Everything in my life

is my life.”

Ogui Sensei

Of liberation and grace

A fundamental principle

of liberated living

is expressed in the awareness that the larger questions

of context, of direction, of the conditions and time

for death, are beyond our control,

hands and heart set free

to care for and to tend to what needs to be done right here,

right now.

The fundamental principals

in the life of grace are

me and you.

Often, not always,

what needs most to be done, calls

a name not for ears.

Heavier worries,

like dead leaves, drop with each step.

Face into the wind.

Before its leaf life, what was it

I wonder, was it tree,

could we say limb or seed,

what of bud or root, or

those fine veins that stretch its tips

reaching for sun and sky?

What was its life before

this browned and crumpled one

that bounces and jumps

and calls out, its thinning voice low

across the roughened surface

of the street?

What before,

and what next?

Delightful. When all’s

been cleared

of the extraneous stuff

and dust

collected in the drift of

living.

Positively delightful.

Once asked

the benefits of chanting

sutras

as practice, the old man

wrinkled

his forehead a bit,

brows up,

Its like taking out the garbage,

he says,

let it go too long,

and things

begin to stink.

Calistoga poems

2011-07-18T11:11:00.000-07:00

Calistoga, off the main roads

To rest, delivered in the page, to deliver

to the page the mind making sense to itself

in words making sense of the world

making peace with itself

in words seeking ease,

tensionless harmonies

of sense and sound,

cured on the curl of the tongue

turned back around

to silence.

July 2

It’s a settled quiet, that of this place

of oaks and shrubs and sun-covered hills,

where the spread of wings claims currents

that cannot be seen,

where among the trees the only trace

trails the longest of the moss,

and that, imagined

before believed.

The perpetual push to peace

is of the mind.

Simply to notice, is enough

for the heart to know.

July 3

I could study, but morning openly invites such silence

as it layers dusts of light over brittle grasses, as it softens roughened barks

with its breath. I could study, I think, then know

that this that I do studies

what’s being done, not what we’ll do,

tends to the going, not to the where, follows

the quieted heart again

to the truth

of who we are, is

who we are with.

July 4

And further considerations, after the fact…

Curves, dots, straight lines linked

together, nothing holds true

enough to hold me--

even when sounded, words don’t

justify the felt.

Yet I keep at it,

day by day, pushing words out

into an always

receptive silence that takes

all that’s given, suggests all held back.

No wrong position,

no stance unacceptable,

free to move about

within an ever-changing

world, where the only password is yes.

Summer blooms,

despite the stretch of mists’

moist blanket, low

along the northern coast

--summer scents

and jacaranda blossoms--

multi-layered metaphors

for the unnamable magic, calling

the many things that are not

that, enabling the mind

to taste anew

what senses already know.

Amazing!

While moving...

2011-06-08T09:27:00.000-07:00

Memorial Day…

flags flap

the languid currents

of an empty breeze

and the count continues

Although it is where we live,

we are not our thoughts.

Think about it.

Across the distance,

streaks of white.

Green hills and pigeons

gleam.

Awareness of the first

comes with the falling of the second,

to the floor of my heart.

With the sharp shock of recognition

of denial—all that presents itself

presents the way.

We slip into the airport without a hitch,

only to find our flight delayed--

the cheek-to-cheek dance

of successive connections

bringing us face-to-face

with patience.

Amsterdam

Recalling, along the canal

this morning, the rising tide

of Buddha’s name

pushing past my lips.

We are our response

to the world.

Up close and personal,

always we.

Jet-lag overtakes us

as Amsterdam takes us in,

hovering, just outside

closed curtains, glistening

about the edges.

The sun multiplied by bees equals honey.

Joseph Stroud

Perception cleared is Wisdom,

the pure feeling of living appreciation,

the world in us, we in it, and it of itself

one continuous moment in movement…

These days the canals are murky,

but along with time

carry the beauty of human purpose

--determined serenity

for the morning walker

and the sky revealing its plan

to anyone happening

below.

Of canals, and of water

The city begins

in a single circle, and

like a stone in a pond,

says our guide,

expands in sweeps of liquid ingenuity.

Morning gulls glide

the empty quiet

drunken young men

seem intent to fill.

I’ve walked this stretch of canal before,

but not like this, after night rains,

the calmed surface collecting light

from the cloud-broken sky

to hold the shining faces

of surrounding buildings

that peer

over its edge.

Holland is in the Netherlands

From the downside slope of the dike,

we listen to the waters of the River Lek

flowing above our heads.

The Church of the Beguinage, Brugge

Originally widows of the Crusades, the Beguinage gathered in small, walled communities

to live in silent devotion. Neither taking vows, nor joining orders, they made good, simply, their intentions to create cities of peace, islands of inclusive kindness

within the greater ocean.

The hushed center compound is shaded by tall, high-crowned trees that watch over

the chapel and its almost invisible, white-clad Benedictines. Any who would come

in silence, are received in silence. A place of warmth that spreads throughout the limbs,

a place made to be so.

Brussels

And the world is not such a strange place

after all, light begets light, warmth absorbs cold

and leaves of every color fall

in their time.

The important work is to befriend the mystery,

for the distance perceived

is of our own making, our own

responsibility.

The city bustles with modern high-rises, business centers, ancient central squares

and narrow cobblestone streets, where statues of little boys pee

into fountains, for photo ops.

And Spring arrives full blaze, burning the skies into blue, as the sun

draws aside the chill, to lay down its work, without so much

as a wrinkle’s difference.

Brussels to Paris

Large with rivers, this land sings

all the varied songs of water,

and then some.

Joseph Stroud speaks of Earth as Language.

And answers, in a breath, the essential question

of poetry, of poets,

of all mankind.

And about you and me…

Forty-four years,

if counting, and if not

a life-time, and even then,

tonight in Paris.

May 19

Albert Saijo

2011-06-08T09:22:00.000-07:00

For Albert Saijo 2/4/26-6/3/11

Learned today, June 6th, of Albert Saijo’s passing, today,

I recall as I write the number, my father’s birthday

—gone at 48, well over forty years ago—

and what I remember most now

is the beauty of the day

we buried him.

Out-right resistance was not an option for the son of a man

of his time and experience—a bond shared with most

of my boyhood friends—expectations were as hard

and fast as our fathers’ hands, neither of which

could be avoided, both of which

had long, long reach.

Sublimated resistance truncates and so carried and digested,

festered and reflected upon over time and over time

released—character.

The city of Amsterdam, I’ve learned, began with a single canal,

a circle, like a stone in a pond.

Nanao Sakaki passed last year, earth wanderer, witness to the final planes

of the Pacific Theater, sometime poet whose intended reach

was the universe, once said a circle big enough to sit in

and to sing, is enough.

And now poet Albert Saijo, having encountered them both only within

the circles of their poems—not more than enough, but enough.

Saijo began in camps reserved for citizens of the wrong color, lived

later solitary years at the edge of an active volcano,

so as to not take up too much room,

saying, all we can do is something with our personal lives,

something “to take energy away

from the madness.”

Sound of a calling voice

2011-03-27T08:24:00.000-07:00

When I walked this morning,

cloud-cover was heavy, and even now,

so short awhile later,

some earlier breaking reversed,

the sense of rain returned.

But for a moment,

ascending the lower slopes,

light broke the horizon silver-white

--so luminous—

breath caught my throat,

my body stilled right there,

feet to pavement—it passed,

as I said,

but in that moment, it was there

and I there with it.

Our sense of self, sense of world, co-arise as simultaneous movements mutually imprinting seemingly separate surfaces of being—but only seemingly separate, our teachers tell us. World transformed is self transformed, and vice-verse. The problem then, not them, but me.

I, as do you, ache often these days, despair at the pain, frustration and horror of conditions in immediate surroundings and in the world at large. And in the face of it all, the counsel to focus on self, seems, well, ludicrous, self-serving, even non-responsive.

But no matter how legitimate, how compelling the call to relieve the suffering, to do something, political, social or religious, our collective failure to attain sustained resolution is obvious—we live, have lived within the results of such failed efforts our entire lives.

Unless the self is seen clearly, the world remains immersed in cloud-cover. And self is seen most clearly in immediate relation, not in the abstract. Think of it. Buddha lived over 2,500 years ago, awaking in a world of human relations and conditions very similar to ours. He found, like us, that he could not ignore the confusion he witnessed, but he did not start a movement. He turned to those around him, those who he could touch, those who were within the reach of his voice, whose voices reached his ears, and he spoke with them, walked with them, lived with them. That’s all.

Movements are fine, as long as our individual movement, up close and personal, emanates clarity and integrity—this is the most valuable contribution we ever make. This work doesn’t do for good sound bites, cannot be tallied or twittered or measured. And it is never finished. It’s the real work. In and of itself it resonates in ways and in time far beyond anything we can imagine. Think about it.

Cold Light

2011-03-27T08:21:00.001-07:00

Cold Light

Diamond-like clarity travels cold

the manifold currents, cracks self-concern,

reveals self-suffering, crumbles

the crooked walls of the darkness

of presumed otherness

This far-reaching indifference of wisdom

vision unfolds an always lurking compassion

only when fused in communal warmth,

only by passage in the movement of breath

Breath, the reach of hearts,

the rhythm of living and dying,

the reach of solitary voices

meeting in the night.

Looking west to cross-valley slopes,

street lamps blink and disappear in the mist.

Yet even at this waking hour,

except for one or two, the many homes there

remain strangely silent.

The small, framed light

emanating from my own, I realize then,

is a certain signal of life

to even the most casual glance

from the other side.

Amazing, my teacher would say,

even as we go along our own selfish way,

we shine with possibilities

only others will see.

The Circle

2011-03-27T08:16:00.000-07:00

He’s turned sixteen today, early this morning to be exact

—his great grandfathers, both of them passing before their own

were born—and I now sit and prepare to sit in circle

a first time, with a grandchild sixteen years full into life.

That it will wax and wane, the sense of it, the fullness of it

always remains, and it is of this I wish to tell him,

of the fullness, of receiving and of giving, of reciprocity,

of the flow that sustains.

And that it is the most simple acts, the acts of recognition

of participation as the gift that fulfills, as the gift that speaks

of the character and of the direction

of true human being.

This, my wish, I told him for his living,

the very same I hold for my own

and too for you

who hear.

The tree in front of Starbucks

2011-03-27T08:06:00.000-07:00

The tree in front of Starbucks

Berkeley mornings are not like others,

I think to myself, waking earlier

than usual to unfamiliar sounds, lightly

traced dreams leaving

only as I relent and rise.

The wispy slip of tree has survived,

still bent but taller, leafless

this time, this time

of year.

It was spring

I believe, last time I looked out

from this window, the morning sky,

building tops, looking down

on the street.

And the tree

bent, in a bow perhaps,

to solitary passers-by

who offer in exchange, perhaps

a glance.

As for me, of course

I remember this tree, look for it as I walk

strange streets away from home, for a signal

in the distance, a signal of something here,

carried-remembered

and found, an intimacy

rekindled in the warmth of recognition

of simply what is,

and all there is,

right here.

Light

I watch the light

as it comes in the front

of the house in dulled hues,

blunt against the tree’s leaves,

the windowed bamboo.

Different from the back’s expanse,

across the small valley

still and asleep, breathing

illumined.

It moves as it will,

answers in its own time and manner,

always full, but to conditions

as it sees.

Changes as it sees fit, and in the end,

of its own accord,

it leaves.

I’ve never heard anyone

speak of it as selfish.

Other poems from the month of March, and before

A chance meeting with the neighbor

opens a community garden project

of pears grafted to pears, to apples, and apples

to apples, and more plans

in the offing—after a year or so

of cooled communications,

we’ve stumbled into watching together

for the coming work of spring,

over both sides of the fence.

I’d not heard it like this before, as morning woke

the upper slopes across the way, it spoke

of time’s whispers—death, it said, is but a change in light.

Our teachers,

sometimes disguised

as friends,

often slip by unnoticed,

leaving gifts behind

just the same.

Did he say,

as we hunched

over lunch,

did he say,

We’re not grateful

for this food,

but for

that great heart

that loves

because

we cannot.

Poet, Cid Corman, counted

syllables, because, he said,

syllables--every one--count.

While everyone talks

of the cold, the coming snows,

fruit trees push petals.

Dialects of light

The sky starts toward blue,

then slips into the high cast gray

of coming rains—in the garden

daffodils hold to their own.

February Poems

2011-02-15T20:46:00.000-08:00

An angel came last night

to my ear and whispered “love.”

I whispered back, Buddha’s name.

Last night in a dream an angel said,

“love” and Buddha’s name came to me

over and over, it went on

like this: whisper—name,

name whispered; love—Buddha, Buddha’s love.

Just a dream, I knew, but in the dream

I smiled, and was glad.

Songs come, they come

from where they come—so

sing, just sing

as the children do.

Stay with dis-ease, as long as

it stays, that is—

sometimes it lingers sometimes

not—of the many gifts of light,

shadow is

one.

Of this life…

The challenge lies in the fallow fields

of the wintered heart, hardened by promises

hidden beneath its own cold crust.

Probed by the simple persistence

of the pen, turned, over time, to reveal

the multi-flowered faces,

the myriad silent poems released into voice

at the singular touch

of sunlight.

Not surrender, no, not closing

down; but realizing, an opening,

a fallen away.

As night’s blackness retreats, horizons

first emerge dark

against thinning ribbons

of salmon-pink, and morning wakens

across the sky-spread face

of the bay.

I’ve come to notice in the morning hours

before light or just as light breaks, or

in the evenings past sun down and the air

settling, Buddha’s name

rises readily

to the lips,

and that this is not so for me

in between, in the sun’s time, as if

Buddha’s work is more fluid

closer to dark, and otherwise moves

as all but silent…bubbles

do.

***

From past notes

The abiding silence often spoken of, carries—it’s not

the reverse—it carries us, coaxes,

encourages along an inner current of vulnerability

that remains quieted, unless exposed

to lighted air, in an out-rush release of joy.

9/15/10

a certain sadness

seems appropriate enough

for it does indeed end

but sadness motivated by joy

is no barrier

9/30/10

So close a companion for so many years,

the writing, the poems,

I’d almost never have guessed it my way

or that so many would so readily see

it that way too—such sparkling newness

at this late age.

9/30/10

North coast forests crowd right down to the bluffs

overlooking the breakers

and the distant horizons of their coming.

10/3/10

All along the road, California Lilac sing

by their common name—blue-blossom.

10/4/10

“From here on out,”

wrote Issa…beginnings…

From here on out,

I will live this life, as given

in the poetry that is nembutsu.

No more “abouts”—that

I’ve done, can leave to others

—but the living, as given,

that’s for me

from here on out…

10/8/10

New Poems 2011

2011-02-15T20:31:00.000-08:00

Face to Face

There are certain silences, distinct.

The weighted air of descending fog

that floats luminous shadows under street lamps,

that covers empty sidewalks

like loneliness resolved, that warms

the singular sound of our own footsteps.

And that most intimate relation, most likely

ignored relation, where relation is

everything: death--the only face the mirror ever projects,

the push of reflection, the pull of creation, companion

ever-present,

death breathes the collective and the singular,

the vital sigh we call life,

extended to every, to each, to the fullest.

Our fears are unfounded, the whole is not fractured

but seen piecemeal, a pulsing relation

merely presumed severed. A rightly sensed presence

in the silence of a fully open gate.

1/29

Doves in the acacia

do not relent—darkness leaves,

light slips in, all at the call

of waiting wings.

1/21

Owl Canyon Lament

Noon and the hills are still in shadow,

season’s moistures quietly working

grounded sprouts skyward, to green.

The gurgling creek too, sustains,

but barely heard, under the heartfelt labors

of a distant woodpecker.

Were I half as attentive to the human hearts

all around, all at work,

what different face might all the world

then show?

1/20

That glow in the west, the sun,

in the same spot the falling moon

illumined morning’s breaking clouds.

thoughts of other lives surface

periodically; but then

I’ve not yet learned to live one

Careful listening suggests

nothing to fear,

no one to be saved.

For the grand daughters,

Kawayan

Eyes a’flame with allergies,

tears flow, the nose runs

and she sings

her way through dinner.

Zarah

The warmth of the past few days

prompts the fruit tree to small white blossoms

and the grand daughter to shed her clothes.

Neither knows it’s still winter.

This young girl walks an earth

that always meets her feet. Eyes like light

in love, she seldom cries,

is never alone.

As dark settles, the moon turns its bottom just so

and lights the whole

night sky.

“Hard is it to be born into human life,

now we are living it.”

From the Shin Buddhist liturgy.

Report from the poets:

Buddha’s wish, as best I can tell--that we learn

to live fully, completely, and die

without doubt.

The American poet, ex-pat in Japan some forty plus years,

Cid Corman wrote, he had no need for belief because

he had no doubt.

This is not ego-speak but lack of ego speaking

from thoroughgoing trust in the movements of moments

as given, as fulsome, as complete.

“No doubt” leaves us right where we stand--Corman continues,

the critical issue, not who you are but THAT you are. Beginning

with this reveals the rest.

Every event reveals the fully possible, writes fellow ex-pat

poet Edith Shiffert, the critical question

--Can I see well enough from where I am

to step carefully over my own time

to trust in “my own” life-death

in the world’s time?

*Cid Corman, from letters to Louise Landes Levi, 1996 and ‘98

**from Shiffert’s poem, “Looking”

Speaking peace

2010-12-28T11:17:00.000-08:00

New Year’s Wishes 2010-2011

Friends and family, your continuing love for the world is my inspiration.

Here’s to doing just a little bit more, together, a little bit better in the days ahead.

Speaking peace at year’s end

Mists of incense thin

in the silence of a single lamp.

Outside, barely discernable

from here, drips

recall the night rains, street gutters rush

to overflow and underground basins gurgle

with abundance—real-time sutras

spoken on the native tongue of peace,

broken by a single pane of glass.

Stitches of sounds, of disquieting voices,

somehow from somewhere

out there.

And yet, and yes, praise is due. And when offered

there is no end to possibilities

yet to be conceived…

…where despite

all we have done wrong

the golden light of October

falls through the turning leaves.

from Wendell Berry's "Sabbaths IX"

Musings 2010

2010-12-21T18:31:00.000-08:00

Winter Solstice

All but alone

in the wintered sky,

all but alone, the fulsome moon

breathes—wandering sisters,

lingering dreams.

Days with names

Days with names pass so easily

as to be completely missed, brief swirls in streams

marked and forgotten in an inhale.

Some carrying implications true enough for our living,

a loose curve or a sharp one, rapids,

long smooth stretches of quiet—you know

Mondays are not Wednesdays, nor are they Thursday;

Saturdays and Sundays, a category all their own.

But as we’ve seen, as all has changed,

the arcs and turns of time have their own way.

The days I have in mind have real names,

taken of themselves--unforgettable.

Like that day in Jersey, in fall

we buried my dad--that crisp sky, the distant blue

touch of sun. The snow outside the window

the evening my mother left.

And the morning in the darkened hospital hallway,

the nurse extending to me our first born.

And that day in Hawaii, soon after we met you wore

that loose fitting shift, green pin stripes on white.

That day. And so many more.

Children’s voices,

up from the neighbor’s yard.

Twilight.

As the sun drops behind the mountain,

shadows race with twilight

to see which will carry longest

playing children’s voices.

prayer and praise

--spontaneous breath-play

I know nothing of the formal structure of psalms,

but believe I might tell them by their music,

the same, if not mistaken, that flowers sing to sun rise

on the quickened breath of earth’s return to light.

So why not just ride

the light-glittering stream

as what it so easily carries?

The point is joy

and joy deliverance

and the song understood

in the singing…

Though the chill has eased,

the furnace wakes at daybreak

to soft tapping rains.

so quiet the earth

in hours dark leaves

light returns so seamless

notes can neither touch

nor tell, so traceless

the earth in its way

and yet, and still

it is here

we have our place

Checking my own pulse

—how redundant!

Jane Imamura

Her words of the camps,

laced with love, pain strung through

with love of Buddha’s love,

page by page, pulse by pulse

in pulse.

Namuamidabutsu

The Wife

Neither difficult, nor easy, she said,

“it’s the way we live.”

Considering the unconsidered

The body knows, always knows and does its all

without prompt, within conditions given

Sending signals of every encounter, ever,

to all concerned

The body knows, as does earth and air and all else

--the restless foot reaching

Meets waiting earth’s harmonies heard

by everyone, then handed to habit

As so for air and lungs, heart and blood,

light and the eyes and the ears and all that whispers

All this, the stuff and sustenance of the mind

that finds itself there

All this work, all this play

for who?

Routine cataract surgery and a detached retina

How smug I was

in those corporate years,

so clear the entitled sense

of the young.

But for the ancients, far senior

to this one, clouds need only be illumined,

not removed, and the real fool

revealed here, not there.

This soundless morning

2010-11-24T12:27:00.000-08:00

This soundless morning,

mid-month, November’s

clear-bright days

call the furnace to life,

wood-smoke whiffs to the sky,

and as our bodies adjust

to the change of clocks,

birds wake and fly

with the light

—this soundless morning.

in service of song…

chill crinkles the morning air

like water speaking of ice

a pitch beyond the reach of sound

yet not of that of heart-mind

and so we who are called to song

are turned as such

in the posture of service

For Eiko

Let’s chant, she says,

then go home.

We do.

Certain prayers remembered

Books hold to the shelves, the shelves

in place with the weight of what’s held—no ideas

but in things, it’s been said, as fingers

trace the page aside the words inscribed,

fleeting moments of sound-meaning, so concrete

as to belie both flash and forgetfulness,

always returning

with light.

Every morning, awakening,

things returning the lighted day, lighting the day

anew, the world made new,

returning reawakened.

He thanks this light, his life, the poet, with words,

the weight of the passing now,

whispers on the breath of gladness,

wrinkles about the eyes.

Approaching Buckeye Canyon…

San Bruno Mountain’s

crows, sun-lit pines,

hawks circle shaded slopes

of crystal-toothed sandstone

opened wide

with ancient song...

sparrows

in shadowed branches

against the blue

Only Buddha remembers

Sitting in fading light,

recollections like so many leaves.

Once forgotten seasons

do not return, but for Mind.

My teachers

having given everything,

even permission to neglect

the little I’ve held.

And the hours pass.

First companion, best friend.

Without her purposefulness,

what might be said

of this life?

At play in fields of light and shadow,

the acacia receives and reveals

the manifold mysteries of language,

the play of the silence and sound

of the human heart-mind.

Has Fall Arrived?

2010-10-21T10:06:00.000-07:00

After the rain,

the patter

of children’s voices

I revise more now than before,

on the spot and after the fact

adjustments, little ones

keep things aright

on course

as best as I can

for now.

Across open pastures

above bluffs

crashing breakers

gulls

wind

In the rented cottage

the turned page crinkles

echoes of itself

the refrigerator hums

the room

dull pencils rub

words

and a settled heart

keeps prefect

time

the writing,

replete with lessons

for the poet

out of the dark

a train

a history

Words are the stuff of human horizons

and like all else can be used

as common currency

or to build.

It’s not a matter of which ones,

but how we meet them

--shallow currents carry traces

of the deeper--

it’s all in the way we hear.

Misguided, we wonder what to do,

yet how to be

suggests the peace we seek.

late summer

open widow

childhood memories

Scratching at the window,

a Jay in the flowerbox—

up and gone!

Mappo: a Buddhist term, suggestive of a time when gifts

that sustain are barely recognized.

Poetically, it might point to the voice that can only hear itself

and never once considers

from where its words, or its capacity for speech, come.

Street lamps cast shadows

in early morning, throughout

evening time, and late

into the night—is there need

at all for moon light?

Summer poems

2010-09-28T11:09:00.000-07:00

For Paul—

Hiking the Oakland hills

behind the grown son

--strong back and shoulders

the smell of dust

the high reach of redwoods

and the slow turn of greying skies--

breathing together

evening’s muted silence

As if the thread…

The end of August, September,

summer’s last burn to autumn

and the long reach to winter sleep

before spring dreams.

It’s the writing, the gathering of words

poems offer,

the sorting, shifting and listening,

the breathing and the watching

for that certain readiness and release,

as if poems were the thread…

Some things, are just left.

The rest, no matter the weight,

never a burden.

To be here, with this

in the hours before day break,

star light falling

in northern skies

in the stillness of meadows

under towering peaks

colored with night

in the mystery

of disappearing stars,

the returning lake

carrying sky-lit mountains

and silently feeding ducks,

the myriad questions

tracing the unseeable working

rising the darkened depths

to the surface

to be taken whole and relished.

Though the window might be better cleaned,

the the light moves smoothly down the morning sky

to the ridge tops

and across the many-housed slopes,

quietly, clearly,

announcing its return.

9/20/2010 and counting down,

or is it up?

With a birthday on the near horizon

taking me closer yet… to zero,

what can numbers really tell and about what end

can any direction ever advise?

But the poem, yes, maybe only the poem speaks

to how I am now

with the world at large.

Namuamidabutsu

In our eyes, the moon

Silver slivered light in the blackened sky,

premonition of certainty

Rising tides

within our very own hearts

So certain

the summer scents,

thick on morning air,

the mist hovering distant bay waters,

the salmon skies.

So certain, this urge

to make it somehow more

pales

in the face

of the all-embracing silence

of the open page--

so certain a measure

of the true pitch of every voice,

I cannot but bow.

Notes from North Yosemite

2010-08-30T09:42:00.000-07:00

Along the trail to Laurel Lake

Resting,

with the back pack

leaned against a tree

in a shadowed stand of pines

beside a mountain meadow

filled with wild flowers

and fern.

We’ve bitten off a real challenge this time.

Wind rushes the needled limbs

and looses a dead cone that falls

from a lifeless top

to a thud

and burst of sun-lit dust

that glows

in its slow return

to the earth.

Between here and there

an orange and black butterfly

dances

across the trail.

Below Vernon Lake

We camp just off Falls Creek

in a slight semi-circle of small ponderosa pines

and a single western juniper, surrounded by miles

of scrape and moraine

--high sierra granite--

all of us held to this rock

by the same pull, each of us

giving all we have

to be here.

The steep ascent

and ten rugged miles

keeps the lake’s numbers of visitors low

but this trail-less stretch of stream demands more

and sees few beyond its long-time residents

--bear, rattler, rainbow trout.

Followed down stream,

its cuts and crevices, falls and bowls, gorges and pools,

the work of hundreds of years, thousands,

all still underway.

There’s intimacy here,

borne by the water, the light and the air,

a shared bond with the granite

that carries a message of passage,

of acceptance through participation

in a larger work

that reveals

a glistening streak of grace

in responsibility,

that speaks not of obligation,

but of responsiveness

and of care.

On any mountain

at some point,

no matter the company,

it all comes down to you

on the mountain,

on its terms.

Oh, I do not climb, just walk,

but even then, over and again, I arrive at that place

of listening--me listening

to my response

to the mountain’s entreaty--

without words,

through an inconceivable, yet somehow completely received

multitude of signals,

a totality of unmistakable, and yes, unavoidable

presence

that both overwhelms and embraces,

completely diminishes

and simultaneously offers

horizon-less possibilities

of unspeakable

beauty.

To respond repeatedly to the repeated call, these,

the movements of love,

where those who demur

may clearly articulate their many doubts,

but those of us who respond, cannot

adequately explain, except,

perhaps to point.

Recollections

2010-07-31T11:43:00.000-07:00

Recalling Nancy Tilden, Teacher…

and the certainty in the light in her eyes

of permissions

to sing

in the light in her eyes come from so deep

no room was left for breath

other than that—

for the beauty of the branch to last

those eyes said it’s the roots

that reach the source

that sustains true song

In Japan once, along the China Sea,

looking out at the shadow of Sado Island,

as so many others have done,

poets and brothers and teachers,

I looked out and felt that chasm

of exile, that distance of singular decision

and the empathy that traverses that misted vision

that connects

all the world over

such solitary shores.

Mountain poems, July 2010

2010-07-28T07:14:00.000-07:00

After a sleepless night

at Islands Lake in Desolation Wilderness,

the near-full moon goes down

around four-thirty

leaving the sky to the stars

before the slow turn of light

calls the lake

from the dark, and the fish

for that careful

touch of lips

The sun runs luminous

through the highest puffs of clouds

but leaves the lower to float,

faceless shadows

passing over surrounding peaks

whose west facing slopes

remain still, untouched and cooled.

Standing at the edge of the lake too,

I think to chant,

but demur—what have I to add

to all of this?

Then, encouraged by the flutter of wings

from flowered brush to either side,

in lowered tones I speak

the Buddha’s name,

and watch the wind drop to the water

in whispered silver ripples

that spread to the shore

beneath my feet,

quietly lapping light.

Receiving Refuge

2010-07-17T11:20:00.000-07:00

To take refuge is to play

in the quiet of the 10,000 things.

Among the falling raindrops,

small, white-crested birds, fly!

Jerry Bolick, July 2, 2010

Canggu, Bali, Indonesia

In his book, Zen Wave, a study of haiku poet, Basho, Robert Aitken Roshi writes: “NamuAmidaButsu…is the cord that will draw the dying person to ease of heart.” I like the image he presents here, particularly the phrase ease of heart, because it emphasizes the assurance given in traditional Pure Land teachings, assurance of the future, assurance of lasting peace after death, but does so with a telling image of movement in the present.

We are assured that the future holds the transition from human life into the embrace of the eternal, from turmoil into lasting peace, which is to say, we are assured that it will all be OK, then.

But these teachings are not just about death, but also about life. Assurance is something we experience here and now. The NamuAmidaButsu that is pulling us to ease of heart is pulling us now. Given to us by Buddha, by eternal, timeless reality, NamuAmidaButsu emerges into time on our lips; on our lips, the movement of the eternal, continually assuring us, continually drawing us closer to fuller realization, in the present moment.

And neither is the unburdened heart restricted to those on their deathbed, because as living beings, we are all, by definition, dying. When I see clearly that I am, not that I will be, but that I am the dying person, then I see Buddha’s message is directed to me, Buddha’s assurances are for my benefit. Then I begin to hear the teaching in a different way.

Within the life of NamuAmidaButsu, the anxieties we experience due to the myriad changes that occur as we live and age, the fears, small and large, of what the future holds, our resistance to the inevitable, all become infused with the assuring movement of eternal care and concern, extended to us in and through NamuAmidaButsu. And in this we can know the ease of heart that is the content of our liberation and the certainty of eternal refuge—it will be OK then, and it is all OK now.

These last few days, in June...

2010-06-06T19:26:00.000-07:00

Praying with open eyes…

the shaman, taking everything in, anything

left out, the diminishment

of sacredness—

or the roshi who meditates because

he doesn’t want to miss

anything—

or the poet’s singular motivation

to clarity,

words as true as bird song—

Humid air’s a stranger here,

an unexpected skin

no one’s able to name.

Through screened windows,

morning’s stillness,

marked by dove calls.

Downstairs, the tenant

moves around the kitchen.

Early evening fog gathers along the ridge line,

cooled drifts pushing

toward newly opened windows.

looking toward the coming weeks

2010-04-30T11:06:00.000-07:00

These quiet hours, the first

in the days of this season long in light,

broken only by the occasional cloud,

accompanied always in bird song,

softest undulations rising and receding

within that most intimate presence

we know so clearly

as silence.

These, the quiet hours.

Decent registers of concern come in colors

both varied and unexpected, beauteous unfolding

of life likened to itself, in kind, in shape and inclination

to recognize patterns of sameness

for what they are:

opportunity to converse.

Would that we would

Oxalis, free ranging spring poems...

2010-04-26T09:19:00.000-07:00

Over and again,

pressed and trampled grasses

pulled back into the sun.

This body, healthy

in old age, complaints passing

like yesterday’s gas.

true haiku, others

may do—I enjoy the pose,

absent any real work

I tire quickly these days,

of formalities

with no obvious center.

Friends inquire, but all I can do

is point to the cloudless sky.

The make-shift altar

in the dining hall, they strain

to follow this hakujin,

chanting ancient sounds of joy.

Three red cabbages

from winter’s garden; give one

away, one we keep

and the last, too loose,

we add to spring’s efforts.

Sounds of spinning wash

from behind the garage door

—morning clouds gather.

Heron’s Point, Bear Dance

April 17th

Gulls and geese clearing the sky

of the last of daylight,

raise a collective call to witness

the silence of coming stars

and the waiting drums.

This spring afternoon danced

with hailstones,

lingering recollections

of winter

demanding one last look.

Borrowing sun tones

from an early sky, the bay

whispers salmon-pink.

Light bounces from feet

unrestrained by gravity

—girl cousin-grand daughters.

Morning pours blue light,

horizons humming rain free,

full breathed songs of spring.

The sun casts light to east facing slopes

cast light through west facing windows

throwing shadows of flowers

on the wall

above the stove.

It’s not that each word is pearl pure,

but the source

behind the impetus

is just that.

Prayer resides here,

in the quiet sweep of attention

before words.

March Meditations

2010-04-12T15:36:00.000-07:00

The secret life of nembutsu

The plane’s television monitor tells us

we’re passing over northern Canada, toward Calgary,

while outside, below, the white sheet stretches

well beyond what any eye might imagine,

what any words might clearly say.

Buddha’s teaching of nembutsu, the mindfulness

of utterance,

is like this too: no need at all to add anything

—saying itself, deep and whole

in and through the silent expanse of the heart—

only listening will do

Namuamidabutsu,

Namuamidabutsu

What do poets do?

Light struggles through tangled shadows.

In waiting branches, dark acacia leaves chill,

still to the windless morning’s entreaty to the new spring

come quietly between grey rain days

that leave the last of that which only they can bring.

Cold Mountain, the poet-monk, tells us

similar scenes appear over and again;

it’s what we do with them

that differs.

Certain mysteries

Clear blue, the Saturday sky lifts

from the crisp green hills,

arching invisibly over the roof top,

waiting, watching,

a lingering presence supposed, but not known,

not seen;

perhaps then, lifting

simply lifting…

End March

The day unfolds utterly absent uncertainty, each morsel

of air-buoyed water running its inevitable course, specific

to conditions within the collective spread called clouds

that span a breadth of hilltop some three miles in length.

I sit watching this, faltering in a mind a’swirl with ambiguity

at what the weather might bring, what that might mean,

while the day simply continues its quiet way, delivering all

it has to give.

In search of those still practicing, Bill Porter,

once known as Red Pine, roamed near-empty crevices

of modern China, and reports:

every adept he met followed some regimen

of chanting and meditation, morning and evening--our practice,

our teachers say, brings us to nembutsu, song, twice a day,

the straightforward gathering of body sound and sense,

turned in the direction of full completion

of living gratitude.

Best friends

Placed in a small black vase

in the corner on the alter

below the framed scroll,

flowers with white petals

and yellow centers

call into the chill and dim light…

Hearing this implies

a world alive,

the resonant pulse of wholeness

linked and woven,

the tiniest thread

a call of fully extending family,

a world of best friends…

Bunch Grasses

2010-02-13T09:38:00.000-08:00

Bunch Grasses

Scattered poems and recollections

of La Paz, Mexico, 2009

The inscription reads:

And if you want peace,

I offer it to you

in the sunny peace of my bay.

night’s clouds break,

spilling swells of light

toward the shore.

Evening’s pink

silhouettes

a solitary palm.

Sitting

alone at the desk,

waiting for the dark side of the moon

to shift and rise too,

out from itself.

Asked his way,

the poet replies: I’ve nothing to offer

but what’s next,

and I’m not yet there.

From Oppen’s prose and daybooks,

a poetics of no-poetics:

This will not summarize.

This will guide

without demand.

Sunday, along the darkened Malaccan, along the water,

well-mannered walkers whisper early morning greetings;

but for the slow turn of the earth,

this the only breeze.

For George Oppen

Some teachers stand out, as such, and the world is not the same

but for them; but for them, the world and all it is speaks, each thing

of its own voice and shape, and the ear, and the heart by way of the ear, hear

and recognize and know.

The pages of the journal take the ink as given,

swirls or broken lines, tears of joy or deeper sadnesses

laid neatly out or helter-skelter, the pages take all

that comes, as it comes—ever full;

ever full and enough, at any last lift of the pen,

or before the very first push, the pages,

ever in all their fullness.

Each morning,

a rooster--scattering

clustered silences.

Under my bared feet, tiles blink

—streetlights off,

the morning sky has its way.

Together

we sit, read and write

into late afternoon--Ana Karina,

one of her favorites, on TV, Spanish sub-titles.

at the airport, a mural

in muted oranges and yellows, a pastoral

suspended above the continuous rush

of barely controlled frenzy—we arrive in time

to wait to leave

Praxis, the Great Practice

Writing the poem, writes the poem.

Saying Buddha’s name, says the name.

The work itself teaches us

where we will next go.

Doing is trusting. Trust is everything.

Recent Mornings

2010-02-11T08:26:00.000-08:00

early color

wild mustard sprinkles green-hued yellow

on hillsides

under a sun stunned speechless

in a wintered sky…

on the arm of the brown

leathered chair, an aqua cup,

congealed instant coffee

on the outer lip…

The deep pull and draw

of the center to itself—

rain drops and incense.

The acacia waits,

holding energies inward,

listening for spring.

I didn’t know Cid Corman

but his lines carry a voice still

discernable—rain falls, I hear its drops

1958, in a Kyoto garden

Under early lit skies,

walking shadowed streets

silently listening

to pink streaked whispers

pass by.

Not knowing the signal,

I watch breezes push past

each branch

and be gone—so much grace

so early in a day.

Letters and poems--early 2010

2010-02-04T13:32:00.000-08:00

February 3, 2010

A Letter to my Niece,

first written in the journal you gave to me, so thoughtfully inscribed, leather bound, easily hand held, about which, if asked, I’d have said that I prefer larger pages, except that this one reminds me of you each time I write, and its too small pages seem to push poems from my pen that might not have otherwise come of it—and at least one letter that might not have been written.

I want to tell you, because I believe you’ll understand, that the writing, the poetry, has become bigger and bigger for me in recent years, not so much as to replace my religious life, nor, as I once thought, to challenge it, as such; rather, I have come to understand it as the core of it all, as my primary practice, principal manner of worship and praise, and so have found it helpful from time to time to be around other writing poets—this being the major change—in order to listen, as most recently, a day ago, to the newly inaugurated Poet Laureate of San Francisco, Diane di Prima, who says that the spiritual dimension of writing lies in its isolation.

I’d just stepped back into the room and caught her comments like fragmented sparks that illumined a centered fullness I’d previously been unable to see, and I take this to mean that there, at the desk, solitary, in the chair or on the couch, there, over the pen and empty page, I am alone with my self, in my self, in its unadorned solitariness, the foundational condition of all humanity—indeed, of all existences; we, each of us, are alone and in this common aloneness are intimately connected with each other; all others and me, connected in the blessed paradox of being fully alone, the recognition of this being the spontaneous banishment of loneliness, the restricted, the crippling, a quiet liberation, experienced similarly in the solitary breathing of meditation, in the singular voice sounding the Buddha’s name, and, I would suppose, in that solitary house of prayer, the human heart and mind, ever opening within the ever present possibility of true and real communication, as Ms di Prima whispered, words resonant with integrity, given with the wish that they be helpful.

Realizing our primal aloneness is not only OK, it is the liberating awareness of our inextricable reliance upon and responsibility for all other beings. This, in the writing. This the sustaining influence of the truth of the matter of our singular and collective humanity, our living and dying, both alone and together. I find myself here, resting in the quiet center of the unending vitality of wonder and gratitude.

What a joy, my young Niece.

My love,

Uncle

Why Now ?

Just as day breaks the edge of night,

we walk through wet grasses, into the hills

overlooking the valley and toward open bay waters,

once contiguous marshlands, vital and giving of life,

then given over to fill and then to a park,

landscaped contemporary industrial.

Last night’s rains run normally dry creek beds full

into culverts now, secreted along their way under the town

no longer cognizant of these ancient voices,

nor the rich conversations of sweet meeting brine

that filled for myriad generations the silence

at the feet of these slopes.

But hints of this music can yet be heard

if you venture to the trails above the canyons

on days like today—on days like today, indeed,

if you go there.

In these times…a poem

Startling behavior for weather

in these parts. Thunder and lightening

at any time of year is a surprise here,

almost unheard of in winter.

Moreover, in recent drought years, where

normal has become consistently deficient,

long-term considerations teeter mostly over a chasm of doubt.

Even so the notion itself, long-term, seems estranged these days,

quick returns being the preferred currency.

As much as anyone, I appreciate the sparkle and clarity,

the cleansing function of shallow running streams, but absent the return

to deeper currents, shallow runs simply dry up.

From the year last past...

2010-01-16T11:56:00.000-08:00

From the year last passed, poems,

from late July, on

Meeting at Bird’s and Beckett

Like cousins, almost,

the pulse and blood of words

binds us, drives so similar

as to link us as kin,

beyond tongue or skin,

real apparitions,

mind breath’s music

carried to sound.

Bathed in the passage of light,

a growing body, actually

a growing body of work.

Behold the deepening treasure store of quickened richness,

receding limitations’ collective collapsing horizons of self, into self-sustaining clouds

of endless generosities and genuine gestures of welcome,

so readily, so graciously, received

that songs of praise

carry the only possibility of appropriate response.

In Jack Kerouac Alley, at the International Festival of Poets, 2009,

I heard

that Jack Spicer said

at the gates of Babylon, God divides

Man and Words--

Words, He calls Angels

and I saw

from within the shifting shadows

freshly hung laundry flapping sunlight into the sky above

the sounds of the many tongued yet singular song

of love

and I knew

beyond uncertainty

the unbounded community

of undeniable renewal

of the human voice

Reflections on this life…

I remember, well yes, maybe as a dream, but I do remember the turmoil

and confusion seeming endless, but was not,

for the depths carry a calm of their own, as does time, that too has a way

its own, and so I have lived to learn to sing, to praise

the ever shifting depths, and that which comes of that.

And so these days, I think myself a poet, yet

for years and upon reflection, for most of the most ordinary of days,

the face of their most common rhythms remain still unspoken,

this silence suggesting, for the poet presumed,

a most purposeful puzzle.

I certainly didn’t care how old you were then

and careful consideration tells me it’s not a concern now.

As it always was and continues to be, it is about our time,

your skin, your touch.

There is the softest whisper of rain on this morning’s air.

Street lights dim, to better hear; pine needles cease their breathing;

leaves swell and shudder to silence; and shadows wait;

each confident in its hard earned wisdom, each thing in its own way,

in its own time.

A haiku life…

Seventeen distinct

drops of sound, blown past the lips

and into the world.

Of fathers and sons…

I’d have said you were gone,

but for those brief glimpses of you, there

in the smile, around the eyes—you there

in the grand son you never knew.

Fully grown now, with your own to care for,

we stand in the shade of ancient trees, speaking of poets

and students and what length makes a line and we agree

to never agree that real work is work at all,

or that, really, we would ever want it to be done.

Making music with our voices,

beauty with our words,

makes peace of places

without walls.

Fog pressed air, so thick with silence,

morning bird calls must feel their way,

ear by ear…

The poet presupposes words,

says the priest, breathing, lifting the pen.

But language presupposed

does not imply words planned.

Wondering, he breathes, lifts the pen.

Reclaiming Weeds, by Layman Gunmo

2010-01-06T17:27:00.000-08:00

Reclaiming weeds and grasses

The leather chair creaks, a certain settled folding that only leather will do, a kind of living response, anticipated at the periphery, accepted with a sigh of the familiar delivered, like skin to skin.

Familiar too, this spacious feeling, followed so quickly with the inclination to fill it, latent dis-ease just lying in wait —once the many numbered lists are complete, what must one do?

Left to the open air, seeds sail the unseen ocean of universal sustenance, until settled by circumstance to begin their real work as seeds—reach into the earth, return to the light--all energies and effort ever-extending toward individual fruition, individual realization always the most significant return for the common whole: seeds lifting on the open air.

Weeds and grasses are profoundly prolific, most common and unstoppable, every circumstance an opportunity, cultivation a help or a hazard, dependent upon the discerning eye—one person’s grass, the other’s weed—to pull or not, a matter of time and circumstance, the only must the careful consideration of the inherent righteousness at hand, the beauty in the face of the real work.

Jerry Bolick, aka Layman Gunmo

Nembutsu Poetics

2010-01-03T12:26:00.000-08:00

The poetics of nembutsu

In his book of essays, Earth House Hold, Gary Snyder writes that Buddhism is a 2,500 year “conversation,” a “gentle human dialogue…on the nature of human nature and the eternal Dharma,” the eternal truths of the universe of which we are a part. It is a “quiet” conversation, as much internal as external, as much with our selves as with others.

It is “gentle” because its flow is naturally inquisitive—it is not about positions or beliefs. Yet it is vigorous, never lacking vitality, because at every turn it challenges the presumptions of the human mind with myriad “practical methods of realization

Snyder is a poet, interested in language; and the notion of a human conversation is, to my way of thinking, poetic. Though too quick of a read here might suggest that he separates the “methods” he speaks of, from “the conversation.” After all, Buddha Dharma is beyond words, about silence; we hear this all the time

But this perspective is not full enough. The point is not silence vs. words, but awareness. Shin Buddhism is rooted in language—realization is hearing and speaking Buddha’s Name (Namuamidabutsu, known as the nembutsu); that hearing and speaking itself is the heightened awareness of the significance of words in human life. A more full perspective is that “the conversation” includes methods, and that conversation is one of the methods.

Our most casual, unguarded conversations reflect, if we are attentive, both our conscious and unconscious presumptions and assumptions. We all readily assess others by the words they speak and how they are spoken; turning that attention around to see the inner face of our own words is awareness of the true nature of our own mind. “The nature of human nature” unfolds quite naturally during the course of our everyday lives, as we speak, as we are; but we are most often inattentive, unaware.

With awareness, simple attentiveness to the inner face of our own words, within the ongoing conversation—both internal and external--that is our human life, comes not only the realization of the truth of our selves, but the undeniable sensing of the ever present silence that embraces it all—words of suffering, of fear, of joy and courage, words of hate and greed, words of unstinting love and compassion, all arising from and returning to the abiding silence of the Eternal Now.

The fullness of this awareness is nembutsu, one expression of which is Namuamidabutsu. But stopping here, as we usually do, arbitrarily restricts this fullness. To repeat, nembutsu is the fullest implications of this awareness itself, which includes all words expressing this awareness. This awareness is the mark of a life in nembutsu; the dynamic, living truth of human experience in and through words. It is also the field of what we might call nembutsu poetics—the beauty and music of true and real words, arising from, partaking of, the fullness of the truth and reality that is our common humanity.

Poems, July 2009

2009-11-20T11:20:00.000-08:00

Blessed detail,

breaths of light, every glance,

every color called,

each rock and all the roadside dust,

clouds of knowing me.

Namuamidabutsu

Stafford speaks of readiness, a receptive angle,

an attitude acquired—savvy, I say, savvy

that it carries already, itself and all that’s you, self-contained

in an open sky of ever-unfolding specificity

and Oppen, pointing to the hand

in that song of the self, the hand on the shirt,

that, the point, the touch

the rise and fall

under a rumpled robe, the draw of air

nothing to be done beyond what’s done

of itself, the scratch of pen on padded page

the song of myself singing the song

on the singular run of the single moment in a single life

of vast multiplicity

mingled with words.

“Old man!” I stand accused

and, so stricken, can do no more

than demur, spotted as such

in broad day light,

taken down by a word taken in,

by a self-revealing reminder

by someone who knows

and loves—the best of omens.

Breathing, high clouds, fog.

The whoosh and buzz

of hummingbirds’ wings.

Under pulled-in brows—

useless tension of too much

thought simply wrinkles

Without question,

the altar rose opens—effortless

offering of fullness received

The patient way

of the settled heart belies

all the fuss and bother

as surely as the first touch of sun light

does the shadowed shuffle and flutter of wings.

So unsatisfactory, this difficulty--

no right ticket, right or wrong turn.

Listen. Simply listen.

The greatest mystery--

how consistency obtains

without a place to rest.

Mine is an interior life, and as such

at times feels a lonely one. I know, of course, I

am no other than all

that passes through—yes, I is We.

But here I sit, alone, looking out

the windowed gate swinging both ways,

letting in the world, always arriving,

everywhere home.

Years ago, someone topped

that pine now growing

flowing grass style.

Boulder Creek

Clear-headed—

the teaching as liberation from the teaching,

the unencumbered declaring availability

for empty-readied hands,

a time for the poet to speak,

to find himself in the world,

until no longer…

Wild ducks this morning,

wedge Northward, cutting their way

through low, seemingly indifferent skies,

the clattered barks of random conversation

meeting within the greater silence

arching overhead.

Children of Buddha

2009-10-18T17:53:00.000-07:00

Children of Buddha

As children of Buddha, we carry Buddha’s seed, our lives share the same source, move and mature through time to the same shared end. As children of Buddha, we grow, each at our own rate, each in our very own way, to become fully matured Bhddhas—our Buddhahood evolves naturally, blossoms fully when conditions have ripened.

In Buddhist communities, “Buddhas to be” are called Bodhisattvas. This designation also serves to characterize the way eventual Buddhahood is nurtured and sustained, the “food” implied being perspective, attitudes and actions. Over time—again, each in his or her own time—“Buddhas to be” begin to understand the presence of the seed, not just within themselves, but within all others as well. And as they do, they begin to see a universal mutuality of beneficial actions.

We are all of the same seed, our lives woven of the same, many-colored fabric. Buddhahood is not a solo act, but a joint venture in which all beings are participating. The real work and growth of the budding Buddha begins in earnest with this realization.

Much has been written and taught about the shape the Bodhisattva’s life might take; we learn of vows, perfections and precepts, and are fortunate to have deeply instructive resources available for study. I prefer a practical view that suggests the Bodhisattva way provides a tentative example of how ordinary human life, in this body, can manifest its fullest potential. However, since human life, life in general, unfolds moment-to-moment, all preconceived outlines of fulfillment become suspect, right from the start. We can never really be certain about how a Bodhisattva will act. What we do know, I think, is that it will be spontaneous and creative; it will be unpredictable, unknowable before hand and perhaps unrecognizable after the fact.

So we find ourselves, or I should say I find myself, even after many years, to be a bit confused about this Bodhisattva way and of course Buddhahood—what is it really all about? How does it relate to me, to my life? This confusion is to be expected, I suppose. After all, we are taught that it is beyond our capacity to grasp the enlightened mind. And for me this certainly seems to be true.

I mean I do have ideas about wise and compassionate actions. But as my wife will amply attest, I am far from spontaneous—plodding, over-worked logic is more my style. Paradoxically, these “plodding” inclinations of mine lead to the abstract and conceptual—not the places, we are also taught, we can expect to find true wisdom, real compassion. No, the spontaneity of Bodhisattvas is rooted in the blood and bones, the breath-by-breath reality of human existence, where it will actually be of some use.

I like to think of Bodhisattvas as on the ground, in real time---not virtual—and that I am in fact surrounded by them all the time, as they diligently work across the myriad, imagined boundaries I’ve created, patiently showing me, time and again, how to keep sight of the seed in others, how to stay aware of the seed they see so clearly in me. For my part, I mostly just bumble along, mostly don’t recognize them, except after the fact. For my part, I feel particularly lucky that despite my lackluster performance, oh and maybe even because of it, they keep working for me, on my behalf, making it look as if I’m actually working along with them. Yes, that’s what I feel, lucky to be one of the many children of Buddha, surrounded by so many others. Lucky indeed.

Poems from June

2009-10-12T21:07:00.000-07:00

Poems from June 2009

Looking back, good friends, I see that June was a rich month for me. Hope you’ll find something of value.

We pause to restore ourselves, to rest,

to drink deeply of the stream, anguish shed

like receding echoes, feint imprints slowly lifting

in the dampened air

above the sands along the edge.

Through the fourth floor window,

leaf filled branches swing in shadows

occasioned with flashes of blue.

Sometimes even the smallest drift of air intrudes,

an uninvited guest, lingering at all

--too long—virus spreading in a shuttered room,

locked from the inside.

On training for ordination

The personal turmoil challenged the feeling

I wasn’t there—only later

did I see I’d already gone.

If I lay this old vow down

one more time without use,

it’ll crust over in the sun like a dried up turd.

big winds come,

blowin’ light

up and down the canyons

So much empty talk, so many empty words, words

spewed now even from digital tongues.

How much less can we manage, how little

are we likely to become, buying intentional insincerity

for the sake of convenience?

William Stafford, ever teaching…

If we truly cherish each other, he said

—so deftly revealing the inner voice of ordinary words,

the inner voice, the spontaneous push to the search for the true,

behind those so ordinary words, as heard.

Points, in his off hand way, to the core common

to Pure Land life and the poet’s vocation,

to hear the call

to trace the contours of the truth in this life,

to listen

to discern the inner voice of ordinary words

and then to speak,

is to hear and speak nembutsu,

remembrance of the source, ever remembering the source

Namuamidabutsu

When asked what he did when his work

failed to meet his own standards,

Staffords’s response

was that he lowered them.

What, after all, did the music

that carries the words

have to do

with his will,

he, the listener, trying only

to trace the contours

of the true and real…

The first of this season taken on the open deck,

watching first light slowly peeling night away from tree tops

and the tiny, harried birds hidden there, shifting weights,

from shadow to light, revealing everything anew.

I know you were here.

Your feather, inside up on the ground.

What is it of me

that you will see, left behind ?

Morning’s come warm through open doorways,

and dogs bark, and crows, and crows,

the houses collecting between,

from these calls,

the memories the sky refuses to hold.

Shinran's Spirit

2009-10-10T17:25:00.000-07:00

If we are to truly show our respect and gratitude to Shinran during this anniversary period, I believe we must do our best to understand Shinran’s spirit, and to share that understanding as best we can. What I mean is, we must try to understand Shinran’s deepest motivations and explore how he pursued their fulfillment. In this way, we will come closer to Shinran, we will come to see our own motivations more clearly and come to see how to better manifest these motivations in our own lives.

This is not something that can be done institutionally; it is not a “program.” True religious life is never top down; it is an individual matter that declares its importance in the inner world of personal motivation and intention. How long Shinran’s influence lasts in this country and how vital a role it may play in its broad religious fabric, will, as it always has, depend upon the seriousness and intentions of individual followers. To this end, I offer the following personal thoughts.

We don’t really know why Shinran entered the monastic life. For a host of reasons, it was not unusual for nine year olds to do so at the time. I suspect then that the decision was made for him, not by him. More important than why he entered is the fact that he stayed. He studied and practiced as a monk, not for just a few years, but for twenty. That his decision to leave was stressful and traumatic further suggests the depth of his personal dedication.

Upon leaving the monastery, he immediately undertook a one-hundred day vigil, engaging in meditation and contemplation, trying to clarify for himself the path he needed to take. And he decided to seek out the Pure Land teacher, Honen, well known, well respected, who himself had left monastic confines in order to offer the Buddhist teachings to anyone who wanted to follow.

It was within Honen’s teaching of nembutsu that Shinran experienced the religious awakening that radically altered the direction the rest of his life would take, as well as his understanding of his struggles as a monk. This part of Shinran’s story is very familiar to many us and is readily available, but there is something fundamentally important that is often overlooked: Shinran desperately wanted to live a Buddhist life.

Shinran left monastic life because he had been unable to realize his own religious goals and aspirations; for all his dedication, he was unable to reach awakening. He was unable to control his passions. And scholars tell us he was probably disillusioned with institutional practices and the attitudes of many of his fellow monks. All of that said, at the end of almost one hundred days of intense introspection, he did not abandon religious life, but instead he turned to Honen. That is to say, despite the shortcomings he saw in himself, despite the flaws he saw flaunted in the religious community, Shinran wanted more than anything to live a fulfilled Buddhist life. This was his primary motivation and therefore the only point where we can meet him.

Shinran went on, like most of us, to live a life of family concerns and challenges, joys, attachments and losses. He characterized himself as neither monk, nor lay. A more relevant interpretation for us today suggests that Shinran began to live a life that was both fully secular and fully Buddhist. But if we are to really learn from him, we must not race ahead, we must start at the beginning. We must first ask ourselves, individually, how important it is, to me, that I live a Buddhist life. Honestly looking into ourselves in this way, we come to meet Shinran as our personal teacher for the very first time, there in the quiet depths of our own introspection, in the examination of our deepest motivations.

And if we so choose, we can also follow his lead, the example he set with his living. For Shinran, the how of living a Buddhist life took place within the continuous processes of deep self reflection in light of the Dharma—deep listening, study, discussion—and the continual recitation of nembutsu.

The source and apex of this life for him, and that which he wished and urged for all beings, is in the religious awakening or insight he called shinjin; but this center swims in the sea of continuous nembutsu. Throughout his letters to followers, Shinran advises those who feel their shinjin is not settled, to say nembutsu and aspire for birth; for those who feel their shinjin is settled, he urges that they say nembutsu and pray for the spread of Dharma and peace throughout the world.

For Shinran, nembutsu practice was both the beginning point and the fulfilled end of religious life, the bookends, the context within which religious life—dharma study, self reflection--was conducted. To “aspire for birth” is to want to live a fulfilled Buddhist life; to want the Dharma and peace to spread through the world, is the expression of a Buddhist life fulfilled.

Our personal efforts to understand, to aspire, to realize awakening, are to my way of thinking never in question for Shinran; looking at his life, we can only conclude that he expended his utmost efforts throughout its entirely. And he urged those around him, and by extension he urges us, within the contexts of our lives and our times, to do the same.

And urge is a critical term here. It is not about requirements. Shinran urges us to consider teachings and activities that were important for him—we choose to take the offering, or not. Shinran knew full well that each of us must make his or her own way. But it was his way to kindly offer what he knew and loved.

An authentic Buddhist life is one of personal integrity and effort. What Shinran awakened to, what he finally understood, did not suggest to him that he should not expend his personal efforts, but that Buddha was the real force behind the fruition of those efforts. He came to understand that Buddha knows far better than we, the limitations of our capacities, as well as our inherent, and deeply hidden, religious receptivity. And he offers the practices that will, not may, but will bring us fulfilled realization and awakening, just as we are.

Trust in Buddha is the realization that Buddha gives us all we need; trust frees us from unnecessary anxieties and enables us to give ourselves completely, unreservedly, joyfully, to the Buddha’s way. As Haneda Sensei of the Maida Center once said, our nembutsu before shinjin is the same as our nembutsu after shinjin. What changes is our attitude, the motivations behind saying it. Before shinjin, we recite because we think we have to; after shinjin, we recite because we want to, because we cannot help ourselves.

As a final note, I add this. Shinran’s perspective that real practice is Buddha’ practice is not unique to Shinran; and Shinran never once claimed he was introducing anything new—the terminology of Other Power in contrast to self power is unique to Pure Land schools, but the underlying principles can be found, explicitly, in both Soto and Renzai teachings and I would think elsewhere within the broader Buddhist community. I do feel however, for the purposes of lay Buddhist life, these principles have been more maturely developed in Shin. Therefore, rather than being a point of sectarian distinction, a rallying point for why we are different from other Buddhist traditions, Shin’s deep traditional understanding of the dynamics of Buddhist practice and awakening might better serve as a site of common concern and mutual study. A rich resource and contribution indeed.

Namuamidabutsu

September haiku

2009-09-17T10:49:00.000-07:00

Friends and family, a small collection of recent haiku. I participated in a haiku retreat a while ago, at Jikoji Zen Center Retreat, in Los Gatos, along the ridge highway (#35) and forests that over look the bay and the ocean at various points. This is a wonderful place, accessible, but secluded, relaxed and friendly. Look it up on the net if you’re going by and stop in. You won’t regret it. Most, but not all, of the poems came out of that retreat.

Hope you enjoy…

Hillside grasses wave

to winds shushing the pines.

The sun wants quiet.

Crows call from nowhere.

The woman stands in silence,

hearing haiku.

Along the shady trail

sun splashes browned leaves

to gold.

Before the sun’s reach, moon

---blue shadows

through sheer white.

Manure on the trail

but no flies, in this shade

bay leaves scent my fingers.

Pulling out his map

the bicycle rider stands

still in the cross roads.

sitting at the wall

mind washed white with breathing, here

I leave home

Remembering dreams

of waking, fall’s advancing

fog lifts my eyes.

coming upon

Roshi’s memorial--the jays

are silent

On this morning’s darkened streets

puddles—stepping over

the moon.

2009-08-17T07:41:00.000-07:00

I am lucky enough to have two grand daughters who still take naps—their naps sandwich some shorter poems, all from July and August…

For Zarah

He once wrote: right there,

mid-window, as I lie on my side,

right there above the roof line of the neighbor’s home,

where the upper most arc of the fullest moon

shone to almost blue the dark night sky,

there, now in earlier light,

a lonely stretch of cotton-white fog

of tightly curled lines, now, the lowest marker

of the surest dust

of blue

and in the later lazy of that long summer day,

at the very same venue,

a nap, flat-on-the-back nap,

brown-eyed, long-lashed grand daughter along side,

straightest black hair and even straighter bangs

framing that clean and rested face

with its lips

turned up like a new flower—who

could even begin to think

white or blue ?

A handful of shorter poems:

Anticipating the sun,

overhead street lights click

off

Morning—

dogs bark

at emerging horizons

Crows chide

through open windows:

Fair weather friend!

someone topped that pine

years ago it forked

more branches for birds

Sitting

center street,

the cat ignores me

On this side of enlightenment

morning fog rolls in,

revealing that we cannot see.

tiny bits

of flying grass

on the trail,

grasshoppers know

where my foot will fall

No shelter

for me—the winds,

such an advantage

for grasshoppers

For Kawayan

I hear you whispering there O stars of heaven,

O suns….O grass of graves…O perpetual transfers

and promotions….if you do not say anything how can I say

anything?

--Walt Whitman

Putting the grand daughter down…

with just the weight of my hand

she stills her legs—slowly then her fingers

loosen to open curls—and then the breath,

which tells it all, falls

to deep rhythmed sleep

she’s on her right side, my hand on her left,

thumb crooked under the arm, fingers extending

most the width of her back

I close my eyes, and breathe

—but can’t tell

whose pulse it is

2009-08-17T07:36:00.000-07:00

In Whistler, British Columbia, we speak with a young woman

native to these parts, who weaves designs from her grandfather’s blanket

(she points to its photo), itself woven for him with prayers and songs

and stories, by her great grandmother—“I come from this blanket,”

she tells us, “and weave only its designs.”

In our loose way, we use the term “sutra” to refer to Buddha’s teaching,

which over time came to be woven into words, on paper.

Pulled from the ancient Sanskrit, “sutra” is derived from the word for “thread.”

Victoria, British Columbia, May 2009

At the bus stop on the harbor

watching flags wait

glance and plume in morning sunlight

there gather so loosely

only to again fall

and fall again

to waiting

Saw somewhere written

that the universe is a restless place.

Ah yes, and magnificently sloppy.

Whistler, BC,

Home to the 2010 Winter Olympics

and millions

of whispering aspen leaves

Wade deeply early sunlight

in aspens’ layered leaves

--so still

the glistening glow

Straight lines and shingles lay where lighted sky used to play,

a place ill suited to the fullness that is real;

trapped, flat in shadows sharp with longing,

breathless and shallow, watching

passing breezes eddy.

Openly wanting.

Coming again to quiet possibility,

the place, lighted, as before,

only angles differing from what they were.

Brief as it seems,

most days the work begins

in pause.

Crossing from Horse Shoe Bay to Nanamo on a full, Saturday ferry.

Bumping waters, a haze of whitened skies

and the flow of padded shoes; muted moves

carefully tended by turned heads and dropping eyes.

Time shared in place passing

us each, and alone, along our way.

A poem, for me,

I’ve come to see as a suggestion

come upon,

then visited with, for a bit.

We sleep at times a bit too long

and dregs remain, slowing it seems

even the pull in the veins

a dirge like call into darkness not letting go,

and we slip there with it

below

where all are allowed to speak

and thus, to make our peace

or not

and the praise that might make poems

is what I chose, careful

attention to all that comes

appreciation

mingled with words

Namuamidabutsu

Spring toward Summer Poems

2009-06-13T19:18:00.000-07:00

Spring, looking toward Summer 2009

Light slips past,

from dull invitation,

to full-on embrace

and I find myself

surprised in morning

already forming shadows.

At times now, because I’ve been told,

a softer way opens to waves that row with sorrow,

with the terrible touch and wrench

of currents’ darkened tellings of vacant longings

of those absent to light—open to this, yet resonant still

to distant, but distinct, trailings of song.

Songs of April and May

So many whirling leaves,

limbs churn, walls creak.

It’s like that here, in Spring.

Limp and unsettled,

insistent in its call--

the white altar rose.

Folded and wrapped in plastic,

today’s news sits on the driveway,

waiting to be asked in.

Who needs names?

Sun comes.

Flowers turn.

Wrapped deep in search of a word,

the pen’s scratch awakens me

to gifts already at hand.

First morning rays

gleam and glisten

on someone’s rear bumper.

Through the open window,

the tree, the trellis, and overhead

somewhere, a plane.

Pulled in,

pulled softly in,

gentle formality melting

all resistance.

I’ve occupied this table

at Starbuck’s on Shattuck before,

on cold mornings,

with hot coffee, in music too loud,

to watch the young acacia at the curb, that bends,

advancing always its many feather-fingered leaves.

Under the thick mantel of new green leaves,

the browned and fallen pad to silence

the shaded banks,

threaded sunlight pulling selected splotches

again to luminous gold.

This young woman’s healing

breaks wide open

my mind—her clarity!

Ocean’s clouds and bluster

take no notice of the sun’s work,

moving into place, as if belonging.

Bodhisattvas Everywhere

Out there somewhere on early air,

woodpeckers clatter, distant concerns

sound of comfort,

of work being done.

Quiet Eyes

Blue sky, blue ink, the empty page full

with faulty lines of scratched thoughts, reaffirmed

in light. “Let the clay speak more,”

the old potter said. Stand quiet, the eyes.

--Shoji Hamada

Common, ordinary words for common, ordinary thoughts

simply running their course, as they do, and what is one to do

but admit, admit the stream

for what it is: as much me as is any else.

To deny, a lie, lamentable, but only softly so,

lamentably bemused, perhaps, at the tenacity of personal pettiness,

the utter lack of movement toward the mature

Yet, of late

A settling, a softened settling, sweet and warm

A settled tone, a leveled gaze, the offering of patience in absence of reverie,

lifetimes on rivers of myriad springs, carried by constant tides of gladness…

And yet

There is no sweetness to the sadness of others

purposefully deprived of the possibility

of hearing a compassionate call.

2009-04-14T10:28:00.000-07:00

Spring Poems

3/2/09

night rains secure

silence passes silence

spreading singular dripping breaths

to every waiting ear

the perennial pulse

3/6/09

Considering deeply of late of mystics and poets and other fools,

friends made whole of the turning toward,

all a part of the tradition sans tradition

of repeated participation;

indiscriminate love pouring forth perpetually, continuously finding

ourselves here, in its gleaming light

despite ourselves.

3/12/09

Issa tells it best,

the great matter and challenge

of Amida’s vow.

3/13/09

How many years have these poems sat on the shelf,

and where have I been?

Unfettered imagination, it’s about.

Grand dreams and greatness

just so much roughage

for the pure joy of release.

The most obvious

obviously overlooked,

he turns his head ever so slightly

and finds he’s been sitting amidst

everything he’d ever need.

Namuamidabutsu

Dreaming my own stubbornness wakes me,

won’t let me return, taking me to the hilly streets

darkly grumbling

the ancient chant of compassionate embrace

that carefully guides my steps,

despite my unwitting unwillingness

to simply open my eyes.

3/14/09

They two

Grey and high clouds. Cold works

the eucalyptus trees swift with the sway of straying attentions,

agitates the un-welcome weight of whispers of hearts that long,

of un-negotiated chasms of unquenchable care and concern.

Severed leaves float free, chilled currents

a comforting respite, momentary and empty of place.

3/22/09

A seductive scene

of salutary beauty

hovers just beyond reach.

“Let go to repair,” it says.

I do. And it does.

The universal nature of Buddha

does its work with an irresistible pull

through the emptied field of uninterrupted faith,

quietude enough for all and every, source

of the only trust worthy of the word, given not earned

in the heart and mind settling

in the eternal now of the time and the place at hand.

When asked, we reply, Namuamidabutsu

3/30/09

Set-backs, fits and starts. Quitting

after returning. Starting over

again: Life

3/31/09

We speak, of course, of collecting our attention, thinking

everything an extension of our intent, forgetting

to question origination.

Eyes recognize light, ears know music

and the nose draws

on familiar air.

Namuamidabutsu

Squirrels, where have you been?

The acacia has been so lonely.

Picking up the grandson after school

--what’s new--nothing…really!

Down hill, crows swoop.

Far distant bay, blue sky.

4/1/09

flying ahead of light into Vegas

desert thick with mists

dusted peaks

4/3/09

meeting myself

in the doorway

of this empty page

Red Rock Canyon Park, NV

resting at the rocky base of Turtle Head Peak

voices

up from the desert floor

Blown free of their tents

in the newly budding bush,

blue-haired caterpillars

walk this treacherous trail with me.

Don’t worry, caterpillars.

More April Poems

Early bird calls collect the quiet.

Hidden blossoms signal spring,

thinly lit air, the new day.

Entering my winter season,

shorter poems reclaim

their rightful place.

Rains fall

into Spring’s approaching tide.

Heart beats smile.

An aging frame kneels,

chanting at the alter.

sometimes needs her own space

this four year old

not so different from me

Preparing to teach

rekindles old anxieties

—too much me!

Amida? Sure.

Just there, to the corner,

sometimes along side.

Never just waiting.

First light, first work,

through the hills to the ridge

to witness Iris blossoms turn

to watch the pale yellow moon

fall in the western sky.

Soaked green, winter poems

2009-03-08T13:30:00.000-07:00

1/12/09

Light

Neither day, nor night.

the moon glows sunlight

into star-swelled skies.

Light. Only light.

1/22/09

Mary Oliver

The effort

she could give, she said,

this giving of herself.

And so she did, a devotion

of patience and of will

and observation, of which

come the poems.

1/24/09

Writing the world

Rethinking, remembering

the marriage of intellect and experience

reordering, or is it ordering

the world in such a way as to see

anew, the silvered thread

that’s joy run through.

Taking refuge

It’s not technique,

nor the other things

the learned might bring,

but the coming itself that most counts,

the coming back and the deepening listening

coming of that.

1/25/09

Rereading Carruth,

looking more closely than before,

looking for the how

that is his, seeing sentences,

full sentences not prose,

but poems.

Unmistakably so,

but how so?

1/27/09

True Nembutsu

Resolve eased away,

unclenched and opened

within certainty and song.

Namuamidabutsu

Unexpected gratitude

In real friendship,

studded with acute and sustained observation,

a few scattered words

will sweep doubt with such sudden ease

only laughter’s left, standing naked

and unbruised in truth’s spot light.

1/29/09

Over time

I began to understand the universal

as not mine to apply

but something ringing resonant in others

for me to hear.

2/7/09

From DT Suzuki

so clearly spoken a koan

from the Zen soaked tongue

to become

not the poet, but the poem

to become

Naumamidabutsu

2/8/09

Sitting in the quiet chill of morning, remembering waking

in the drift of horizonless and distant calling held close,

the gentle start and ease of recollection murmuring recognition

and the smiling spread of gladness.

Namuamidabutsu

2/9/09

San Diego, Hotel Row

It rains big here. Scowling tumblers unfold

splashing tropic drops against cement walkways

strung in sporadic sections off the portage road along side the hissing stream

of headlights. I celebrate

these stretches of safety from passing morning traffic,

looking to the clouds as the rains ease a bit.

Sweat trickles and a distant stoplight blinks

suggestions of the mid-point of my walk,

a time to return

to my temporary home,

cloud hidden blue at my back.

Breezes play,

trees rush cold through clear skies,

the full, slow falling moon,

a certain signal of new things already come.

2/12/09

Awakening at dawn

hearing more deeply the voice

that speaks of its own calling being heard,

resonant of praise and response, of the shift and pull

of the softened tears of the opened and settled heart.

2/13/09

Counting one’s blessings suggests something missing…

And complete, a week smooth through mornings away

to jagged evenings soothed over time to rounded returns

to beginnings never really left behind.

2/20/09

San Luis Obispo

And how in time

through unfamiliar windows

framed inclinations where once was flow

find trees on line on hills

once open and free

The mystery continues its quiet way,

wintered hills soaked green under a clearing sky

and the last receding drifts brightened white

2/23/09

Something Matthew said…

suggests I’ve been looking in all the wrong places,

thinking all the while I’ve been right

about the light, seeing now

I have not seen even a single thing

quite right

no ideas but in things, say the poets;

no light but for things, so shining

yes, light is un-seeable, except

in the myriad things, which as such

so reveal us to ourselves, so shown

mutually luminous within imagination unbound without horizons,

spontaneous release in unlimited, unending possibility