Poems 2014
Late April
The window in the room where my books stay, where
eveningtimes
I chant, is the only in the house that faces east, looking
out across the street
to homes at rest on a slope that rises a hundred feet and
more,
so the direct touch of east-coming sunlight happens only
during this time
of long arcs of high sun, and even then only for a few
minutes easily missed
for their quiet, unassuming passing.
But for those who attend, the season offers more,
for as the sun drops to the last of its arc and begins to
fill the horizon,
the west-facing windows on the eastern slope across the way
catch this final light and cast it back again in luminous
moments
of shadow gold mosaic that glide and stroke their way
through the room
like the vision of a lover’s breath leaving a departing
kiss.
**
It’s not that I think
this is center universe,
but that nothing
ever goes by unnoticed,
except that
I think it does.
**
Their opinions…
strongly held or just passing,
are no more worthless
than our own,
good friend.
**
Slowly thinking, I see…
it’s only those movements true
to the human heart
that sustain —the poem
is not words, Buddha
not a name.
**
A prayer for Buddha Day, April 25, 2014
After days of unrelenting winds,
of trailing leaves and limbs, this morning
contains its breath in that slender light
before the coming sun
to lend itself to the single stalk,
the singular petal, to blossom
standing alone
and to whisper to each
its name—Buddha, Buddha, Buddha...
Namuamidabutsu, Namuamidabutsu, Namuamidabutsu…
**
6/2
Opening the kitchen cabinet door
to find the heart at rest
is not a matter of finding more,
but seeing deeper, clearer detail
that reveals the more already there
—like the sudden sight of dust alight
on air gone gold on sun gone down
that strikes a light behind the eyes
inside the heart
where space and time and ordinary place
are made to be known anew.
**
6/3
Because the streams of light
that touch the hand that holds the pen
that glints the words that glide the page
to scratch a smile to lips then kissed
by morning’s prayer.
**
Opening
the door lets
in the air
whatever
it carries:
be careful.
**
Refuge
to retire, to retreat
to where Saturday or Monday are enjoyed
for no more than their sound
when spoken aloud: morning, waking, light.
The scratch of bird feet at roof’s edge,
your breathing—silent rivulets bob petals
open along the outside sill—the fluttered shadow
of last night’s dream come home,
the promise of stillness fulfilled.
**
California’s Natural History
Even at an age of ten to twelve million years,
scientists think of California’s Sierra Range as young,
still gaining in height and maturity—how silly then
for me ever to feel too old to walk its trails,
to think of my growth
ever being even near finished.
**
6/9
The spider web
outside the window
whispers with streams
that even bamboo leaves
have yet to hear.
**
6/13—a
Friday
where even the most distant of possibilities
seems close and at hand
and the silver taste of calm warms the mouth
with psalm-like sound
and appreciation deepens…
**
6/14
Can I know
that flower
but not know
its name—let me
count the ways…
**
Thoughts on revision…
to the extent attempted,
to find and to ride the breath
as light and clean as it allows,
to follow that trail, where it leads,
and no more…
**
6/19
In the dim light of early morning,
the crinkled turn of the last of the journal’s pages
spells melancholy anticipation,
like breath unburdened
in open-handed sky remembers its source
in letting go,
its deepest nature always working through, always
working through the lift and delight
of the myriad questions posed
even in the face of the answer
already freely given.
