The next iteration...

Giving the thread its length, let go

the tip, a shallow breath, and watch

the air, without question, carry it all. 

**

What better way to want to be

than more ready to be more 

receiving…

**

Words might well be forgiven their shortcomings.

They don’t hold much or for long, but most do

suggest another word to follow, or to take their place.

And for free.

**

whether wanted

or not, what’s next 

is always given

**

“Patience

doesn’t make

any sense.”

Sandino, almost 4

**

Student:  what is this,

that I apologize to spiders

when walking through their webs ?

Teacher:  manners.

**

Four days after we start saving light,

waking in the dark, under thick layers of fog,

feeling strikingly unburdened,

clear and settled, like when things falling

into place make you aware, for the first, 

they’ve not been in place at all,

as if a question is answered 

before you’d thought to ask,

and so you just get on with it,

just get up 

and live.

**

Jupiter,

the planet in the south that glows

its special glow just after dusk

just above the horizon, holds tight 

to an off-kilter clutch of moons 

invisible to the naked eye, yet 

mirror-dancing with their host 

and the telescope, 

here on the roof.

**

Poetry happens because 

the innate capacity of words

coming together 

can somehow take us where 

words can’t go—or, from the beginning, 

perhaps, that which moves words 

continues well after words 

reach their limits.

Either can bring us to poem, 

and the next one may lead us

to peace.

**

And if the point of it all is to feel,

feel our way back to feeling, then 

none of the vast range of feelings

ought be rejected out of hand, ever.

Then yes, everything ever is yes.

**

Intuition

Catch a glimmer, even the slightest, 

then good, that’s it, to go with 

or to leave. Too much more said, 

is an altogether different direction.

**

He’s an older man now, as am I.

The clearest memory I have of him 

is with Kerouac’s “On the Road”

in his back pocket at a party—our kids played

in the co-op nursery. Never more than acquaintance,

we meet at a memorial. Two grey beards, smiling 

over coffee in paper cups, friendly

in memories strikingly warm.

Neither of us work for money anymore, nor

commit too full a calendar—footloose, is the way

he puts it.

And I wonder, this shared sensibility as we age, 

a warm anticipation, that here on out is open-ended, 

currents extending in light, trusting everything.

**

Time with a teacher

is not always

satisfactory,

except maybe

over time.

**

Stars call me to the back deck tonight,

calling out their names.

In an hour or so, glass and chart

set aside, 

I light incense and call Buddha’s name,

or is it mine?

**

Saijo says somewhere that it’s the writing

in its totality that sustains—I tend to agree

what reaches the page is good enough

of itself, even if tinkered with, is 

the writing too, as so with the breathing

they speak of, that breathing I think is

here tended to, too, as is the singing,

chanting and speaking, those warm, 

welcome extensions.

**

Before clearing the horizon, morning’s sun

splashes salmon through low stretching clouds 

streaked pink—deep bedrock promise, 

a grey to bluing sky.

**

Darkness doesn’t speak

its night-long hold.

The sun, simply touching.

These words, a same

but different weight.

**

The heat goes on

just as the grandchildren begin to stir,

the dim light heavy with chill. 

The youngest whines, then calms 

under his sister’s comforting tones,

while his elder brother sleeps,

deep in undisturbed indifference.

With all this warmth readily available,

why we continue to turn to the men

remains utterly inexplicable.