More from October

October poems-2012

Beyond the window,

evening chill settles,

outside darkness

reflects the lighted room,

and the moon, 

reaching for fullness, lingers

high above the roof top,

as unseen as tomorrow’s faces,

yet to be known

and yet as readily recognizable

as our own.

**

Su Tung Po lived on East Slope,

looking west, just as I do.  

He took his name from that slope,

but I’ll stick with my own, Gummo,

and imagine that he too

sat among the many weeds

setting summer suns pull

from hills like these,

imagine that he too, in his time,

sat like this, looking west..

Su Tung Po is one of the Chinese ancients. His name means: Su of East Slope. “Gummo” is the name I took as a follower of Buddha’s way—it means “weeds,” a most common form of life. The wife and I have made our home on the east slope of the small valley that holds Brisbane, California.

**

The first of the newly hung bird feeders

gets some attention, but the second hangs lonely,

unattended, hummingbirds busy elsewhere

around the yard. Perhaps when winter comes,

unattractive offerings, such as this one,

may show different colors for those then

passing by.

**

Buddhist Temple of Marin

The flowers from the altar

now rest in a vase

on the kitchen counter,

memories 

of gathered beauty

spread of itself, 

friendship in worship

deepened over tea

and togetherness,

the way made concrete

on considered words,

petals transcending time and place.

**

Winter rains arrive

without equivocation,

arrive with little room left

for even a lifted eyebrow,

arrive in the steadied flow

of movement of time

as certainty—winter rains.

**

And so there are others, recognized now,

who’ve walked this way,

and breaths come less the lonely

because of it.

**

With the great eucalyptus down,

a constant presence

all these years,

now gone,

the curved shock of night sky opens,

the horizon’s comfortable-usual

giving way to wonder.

**

I woke groggy

and aching

this morning,

peered into the fog

that revealed

everything.

**

Elizabeth Street

Elizabeth Street in San Francisco

is one-way, runs parallel

to 24^th, that somewhat upscale stretch,

there between Delores and The Castro.

It’s quiet here, sitting in the car,

under trees, looking down-slope,

with housed hills in the distance,

a block and a-half up from morning traffic.

Balding men in slacks

and short-sleeved shirts

enjoy the sunny sidewalks;

all seem to carry folded newspapers.

The most straight-forward

of explanations, if at all necessary

in the wider scope of things,

is that this is where, right here

is where life is right now,

as I wait for the store to open at ten,

right here now, where as best I can,

I watch, and listen, and try of its taste.

**

Freedom happens

when others

are allowed theirs.