August into September, poems
of ordinary intimacies…
pink blossoms
bounce along the fence,
ripple, finally find repose,
simply still
**
August 6th
Night was long wakefulness,
somehow restful, fog fingers now in the ridge
to the west, morning sky blueing, cloudless.
The Buddha taught, I think,
the world’s suffering, our own,
cannot for most finally be resolved,
but can be faced with equanimity,
for the joy, love and fellowship
found there also—this,
we can do.
**
August 10th
In my absence, my wife pruned the blossoms
where the hummingbirds come to hum. I’ve seen them
return to wonder, as so often we do, at the change,
at loss, seen them in those hovering moments
before recovery, before reconnection to the reliable
stream of living inquiry, reconnection to question,
to what is this, where will it lead, to
whatever comes next.
**
August 11th
Mist and fog lay heavy
on the streets here,
certain signs of summer
finally arrived in full,
the obscured view
affirmed as real, as true, as
no, we do not see clearly.
Filtered light tells us so.
**
8/13—Sam Hamil, on Galen Garwood:
“ He has remained patient, an artist more interested
in process than wealth, a seer alone…, alone
and taking notes.”
And so we return, we see, we watch,
respond and again return—not so much discipline
as extended natural curiosity,
unending tentative touching, taking notes.
**
Before the sun, horizon.
Then, pink clouds.
**
August 19
Garrulousness, yes, perhaps, at times. But I’m told
real poems shed words like leaves too heavy
to stay till the breeze lets go.
**
Unable to touch
a safe place, fatigue
has its way.
**
From uncertain shifts amidst burnished shadows,
light collects,
decides:
Day
**
August 20
How many the telling signs
dismissed,
before hearing
tolling bells
calling our name
too.
**
8/22
We’re tired, real tired, so
except to reach for the news paper,
the gate will stay closed,
the phone shouldn’t bother,
nor emails either.
Old age has it own ways.
While often ignored, there are times,
without excuse, it simply will not
be refused—good friends
can do like that.
**
That old monk hobo
holds out his bowl
without apology—how well
do you hold yours?
**
8/26
Outside, through
the open
window, dogs,
small dogs bark
in morning
air, without
any thought
of how far
that endless
stretch of air
will carry
voice along.
What of us,
our voices,
do we know?
**
Looking over
at the altar
where the flower
sits in its vase,
remembering incense
not yet lit, intentions
not realized
but for this remembrance,
wondering if that’s enough.
**
When I finally realized
how much I’d relied
on my friend as a teacher,
it became clear
I’d known all the while
it never occurred to her.
**
8/31
The way
I understand
is punctuated
by the fact that
not one of us is ever
lost forever.
**
Just as we find our way again,
we look first to our feet
before lifting our eyes
to horizons now somehow new.
**
September 2
Time passing does not mean something missing.
I mean, when an old friend calls, just answer.
**
9/3
A moment, a day even,
turns more to its own
given clarity
when someone passing
nods at even the smallest flutter
of meanings we hold close.
Therein, the gateways
to how much
we share.
**
The winds that’ve been
have left with the night, leaves,
small branches and litter
gathered in shaded corners,
huddled conversations of time
gone by so fast.
**
September 6
Lay facts on me if you must. I promise to consider,
but know I will bend to hold
only a few,
but for the image, the impressed influence
carried there in themselves, integral to each,
to its own meaning.
Along side the moments at hand, the given.
That we are at all, and as we are, always
drenched undeniably in light.
