Where endings are beginnings...

        

This Buddha sits with you 

in the broken light  

of pain-strewn streets

and slow-folded knees

that signal

unquestioned  presence—

throughout the darkness,

the voice of a friend.

**

A poetic form from the American poet, Allen Ginsberg:

The American Sentence: a whole thought in seventeen syllables

(a modern adaptation of the Japanese haiku, for English)

(punctuation, as you like; a single line preferred, not required):

* Below the horizon’s morning sky, sun glistens in hillside windows.

* Stretch-bellied grandchildren watch u-tube—Nona asleep in the next room.

* Perspective: my new allergies, in light of a friend turned terminal.

* Who can deny that the sound of the pen-scratched page is saying something.

• Songs of the Sunday paper: shoes without socks, chill against showered skin.

* Pink mist pools just above the bay’s waters in answer to morning’s call.

**

We ran, ran through grasses in the hills,

just for the thrill of it, 

shoelaces stuck with seeds and spurs,

all raggedy, all winded, just like a kid—

you know, like the kids we once were,  

heading head-long to nowhere in particular, 

just to go there.

**

presence—

the quiet rush

of out-poured breath

carried in a name…

**

The briefest pause 

allows direction 

space enough 

to change 

everything—

insight’s like this,

nano-seconds, 

passed by

or followed, 

either way, new.

**

Self or other, it’s witness that heals,

voice that soothes, our wounds

that can bind.

**

Life-death, the poem’s heart,

Buddha’s name, resonant

syllables sounding.

**

That old man, there in the mirror in the aisle

in the store—it’s me.

**

The moon that is my life,

pours itself into the west,

but “to what end…”

that old witness, Chomei,

once asked.

Rains continue, drought retreats,

bamboo quivers and drips.

And what more for one more 

inarticulate tongue

than to offer “a few prayers,”

into the trace and feel,

the unobtrusive 

touch of this 

ever-abiding silence.

**

Now a’days, December 10th 

is international human right’s day—

for the ancients, the venerables 

among them vowed to save them all—

each day, ever, the numberless sentient beings 

they encountered there—

including the humans among them, 

earthlings all, and earth and its all, 

each day and every day ever—

all this, all this day too.

**

My Dad’s breakfast, every day I ever saw,

was two eggs easy, bacon, toast and coffee—

as a kid, he’d have had biscuit, not toast,

jam not jelly; and he always ate to full.

The belly is the first to go, he’d say, 

having been lean as they come when young,

the belly arriving mid-thirties, encouraged too

by regular evening beer.

I can say with confidence, he could do anything 

with his hands—he worked hard.

And I wonder here, if he had lived as long 

as I have,

would he have come to be less certain 

of things—or 

was it just that it seemed that way

as a kid, 

as his kid…  

**

Thoughts for the turn of the year…

Resistance does not require of us to change,

but rather to intensify. For how we live 

and what we live for

threatens most

those who would have us do otherwise.

Double down, do so with joy

and, mostly, be true.

November 2016

A love story:

Just say it, she said,

way back then,

and he did, and so

here they are, all these years

later—just by saying it

the way it was,

so it is now.

**

“…there is no direction

                   forbidden us.”

                              Uchiyama Roshi

The bald-faced, unwavering conviction of connection,

agenda-less engagement of open hands affirming.

Not naiveté, but trust sustained attentively through time 

and space. The point of art: the arc of its doing:

fullness found in steps beyond choreography. 

**

Things realized 

                  while

                       catching my breath:

Separation is illusion, solitude real—the best

we can do is the most we can expect—less 

is usually best—notions of failure, met 

with deaf ears, works—hands truly ready

are always empty.

**

I wore one of those

snap-on safety reflectors

on my walk this morning,

a gift from a thoughtful friend,

given on faith that it works—dark

holds secret light 

that hides there,

unless you 

release it.

**

The light from the lamp

drops across the page

unremarked 

except for the permission 

it gives, which if withdrawn, 

changes everything—

as is so for most, you could say, 

or is it so, say, for those who pass unnoticed, 

unnoticed through so many centers, invisible, 

and then don’t—

does their absence then spell darkness, 

suggest diminishment, imperceptible change, 

or just zero—not even wind, cold constant, 

not even the sheerest petal

of consequence—

like silk , like silk that pours like liquid, 

to the floor, doesn’t reveal answers 

for the fall, 

does it ?

**

                             November 16

Threads…

Chill-chased fingers

find comfort in the cut

of the vest’s pockets,

as vowels followed

for the sake of their sound

curb in settled tones

found on breath

granted fully the space

there chosen in the taking—

fingers too, loose and limber

in letting go, are not spent,

but ready for more.

**

Agenda: all the earth, and all that all

needs to thrive.

Strategy: listen first, listen long.

Goal: song.

**

Two days of hunkered rain, now it’s clear

and earth again meets our feet, takes 

whatever they give and gives again 

whatever takes us along our way… 

no questions.

Knowing a giving way opens worlds

where language melds and gestures

recognize, in kind, gestures intended 

to recognize.

As is so with all of us, each lift of the foot 

is vulnerable to its fall—friends

are found everywhere. 

**

Thanksgiving

Like you, I’ve been in dark places,

and the future—only as far as how long 

it takes to get there—is rarely marked 

far enough in advance to make best plans.

What I’ve learned 

is even the littlest light, if you’re willing, 

will take you the full distance.

**

                                                            11/26

Winters here are green: rains

clean bay leaves, branches push

to buds, coyote brush blooms,

mushrooms mound in dirtied white, 

bear berries bare their red

and hummingbird sage 

speaks its return 

with grasses and weeds

that winter these hills 

again in green.

**

When relaxed enough, 

those things we seek, slowed down 

enough, reveal themselves, 

as that bearded poet once said, 

reveal themselves 

when we’ve slowed down enough 

to receive.