Earthling...

Above Buckeye Canyon…

the last of the clouds lift from my eyes

to let the sky fall

to me

in it.

Cumulus gone, hawks circle

dreams flashing white

glints of red

around

my own raised head, circling

sky like a dream, like

they say, like

in a dream

blue sky

calling 

home

**

Tell me of your true teachers, 

called so more for time spent  

than words said.

**

I’m glad to accept the offer—I sense 

the attempt to not hinder with obligation 

decision willingly made—all of us, together, 

a collective of singularities, singular integrities 

in a world supporting all, each their own worth 

in their own time, integral, essential and whole 

expressions of the whole. 

No thought of ought—the way it is 

to begin with—free.                              

**

Earthling, have you noticed how pines

hold morning’s retreating darkness longest,

how crows prefer the tops of pines

and long telephone lines,

how the moon, even in the midst 

of its long winter work, 

makes time illumine every face it faces ?

                                                                  

**

Everything that comes our way 

makes a difference we bring back

into the world that brought it our way 

in the first place, a cumulative project, 

always underway, always now, 

nothing lost, everything 

always spoken for. 

Looking from here, I can’t remember

anymore, what it was I ever thought 

was needed. 

                               

**

For a moment this morning,

I lost the moon behind dusting clouds—

there, then gone, then there again. And

I wonder, for the moon, is the opposite true, 

if for it, we are ever lost?

                                            

**

Unfinished promises

fall like trackless snow

fallen light on early streets

smoothed luminous clean

and quietly waiting someone 

who knows 

it’s time.                                   

                                        

**

I do my best, even from my wife, 

to hide the extent of my idleness. 

But  since you’ve asked…

that poet William Stafford called a poem

a group of words that catches your attention

just so—anyone, either side a particular bunch

of words, can make valid determination—no

restrictions apply—no anti here, no handles there

to help you see what you think you hear—traceless,

yet real, like breathing—Ryokan, before Stafford, 

refused to speak of his poems as poetry; he simply 

wrote his mind—and Han Shan before him, 

brushed his ink on stones and boulders, 

left poems where found, to fend for themselves, 

then wandered around for more.

All these years, all this fuss, over nothing.

See what I mean? 

**

Yet another morning after…

Bodhisattvas sometimes appear

who help us reaffirm our center.

Although this is not always pleasant,

neither is compassion

always what we’d thought it would be.

                                                               

**

Local

Rain-ponchos swirl around legs

swept with shadows, silhouette trees 

drink moistened pavement 

and pools of silent street-lamp light 

wait for morning. Where is “here” for you, 

the poet’s essay asks and means, 

your “watershed”—words you know 

you should know, that shed your shoulders 

like rivulets of another’s language, 

words that say, nonetheless, that something 

that needs to be said.

                                                     

**

In this world today, one effective counter 

to successive preemptive attacks of chaos 

might well be equally scatter-shot: 

multiple random acts, unrelenting flows 

of individual gestures, of kindness,

from all of us, to everyone, everywhere—

“love beyond flags” of any stripe or color.                     

                             

**

Lost in thought, rain drops

wrinkle awake shuddering bamboo,

dripping winter blossoms

waver the breeze

and the last of evening’s light

lingers at the window

whispering secrets

of spring—-

                                    

**

The almond tree 

in the front along the street,

pushes buds

in every direction,

always bursts to blossom 

first—this year, today, 

in a break in the rain.

**

One of my teachers once said,

once you get it, don’t keep talking

about it—that’s not it.

The boat bumps the opposite shore

to signal time to get off—a wave

of thanks is sufficient.

Looking back too long doesn’t help

adjustment here—early suggestions

of loneliness are intimations 

of independence: keep walking.

**

Saturday morning’s moon rests full

above the west horizon, almost gold

against an ink blue sky gone blank,

the last of the stars’ sparkled promises  

forgotten, the palm of the bowl on the altar

holding prayers like incense

offered to a circling world, to the mystery

of the reach and the burn of air.

                                                         

**

Surprised by the arrival

of sunlight, clouds hovering the ridge 

blush, then reach for the pale blue veil

of this, the world’s newest day.

**

Aromatic yellow flowers adorn the altar, 

augment rain-drenched skies, petals 

sounding sunlight’s presence. 

                                                  

**

Last night’s storm 

leaves a blanket

of almond snow-flakes

that track into the house

but do not melt.

**

In the dark of early morning streets,

reviewing the past, the myriad signals 

heeded, those ignored, those understood, 

those not—the puzzle of loneliness 

slowly unfolding the wonders and joy 

of solitude—at every end, a beginning.

                                                              

**

For a moment, clouds make room

for sunlight’s reach, then close again

for shadow. 

A break is all it takes for insight.

                                                          

***

“No one knows I’m sitting here alone.

A solitary moon shines

in the cold spring.”

                               Han Shan

                              trans. Burton Watson