New poems

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.