May Day

May Day,

clear and

windless,

quiet

morning

dreams of

living

quiet.

Questions

of point,

of what

it adds,

let go

into

quiet.

It says,

listen,

it says,

look here,

what is

added

is peace.

**

Early, this morning, rising early,

on the streets, in the hills

before the touch of the sun, before

the birds overhead begin

their throated reverie,

silent sentinels, lined and listening,

the passing stranger

wandering below,

listening

for the slightest signal

of the day’s first call

to song.

**

Deep Mind

Certain truths

simply sink in over time

so thorough that question

has no where to stand,

affirmation dances loose

as a scented petal, and

efforts to ignore or to discard

resonate ever more deeply.

**

You don’t have to close this door

just because you open

that one.

**

The moon, nearly full,

passed by the window last night,

so quiet its work,

washing dark’s dust clean away,

even gout’s throbbing

could be heard.

**

It’s like this…

like everything’s already there,

yet differently heard,

like a familiar stream in deep forests

that you know is there

delights each time with a different voice—

you know it by its surprise…

**

It suddenly dawns on us:

we’re going to doctors’ appointments,

together !

**

Sandino David

May 7, 2012

Everywhere is home

for the sage, everyone family.

But for me, there are certain places

where rest comes easiest

and this tiny, early arrival speaks

to me, as only my grandchildren can.

Too early for us to even touch,

still he shakes me—while my son,

his father, wills the earth to steady,

the air around him trembles

as he looks at his wife, and I

reach for my own.

Though they say,

anywhere can be home.

**

It’s like this…

like sunshine over wind-blown grasses

penetrates

single-minded practice reaches

the deepest recesses

the silent presence of Buddha

spreads everywhere

namuamidabutsu, namuamidabutsu

**

The change

The dream was more deep-throated moan

than cry, the weighted change of recognition

rather than decision, the slow, scraping halt

itself implied transition forward

inarticulate, yet specific, message

carried complete

—the arrow’s own movement—

no longer a matter of what to do,

but what’s happening here

plans and calculations jettisoned

in the wake of open wonder

in clear and unhindered skies