July poems

—July 7th—

There’s an old story

from well before digital,

where the knowing master

stops the novice 

at the gate, tells her

to practice more,

return in ten years.

She does.

**

A plane passes unseen

over the rooftop.  

A plane, plain and simply

sound-known,

no question, no need

for more

than this enough said:

a plane.

**

Ansel Adams Wilderness—8,900 ft.

Madera Creek runs strong. Scattered patches 

of snow, threatening clouds 

and the wide expanse

to peaks 

rarely seen from here.

Darkness falls. The creek moves, 

the tent’s netted walls 

make home.

**

“A few clouds, a few trees

have been your only companions.”

                                 —Chia Tao (779-834)

Chittenden Lake—1

Waking at six—the sun, the peaks,

the gauze-like half-moon 

in a pool of blue. 

Sing Peak snows hover a thousand feet 

above the ice-filled lake

and the roughened arc of cirque 

runs a ledge of pine and snow  

that holds the perch 

                              

where I slept the night 

among the stars

at the edge of grace

**

Chittenden Lake—2

5 AM—before sunrise, the last star, 

            moon watching         

            everything—

            are we not always

            at the edge, 

            just not awake enough 

            to see

            that way ?     

           

**

Chittenden Lake—3

The lake’s inlet stream 

runs from beneath a stretch 

of ice and snow

that runs from just below

the highest of the peaks, 

a rush of white sound 

that blinds the ears 

with a sense of ever-presence

that quiets inner tides 

with sense enough to hear 

lake lap rocks.

Differing ripples 

awakening 

relation,

listening,

afternoon sun taking 

what all the lake 

will offer.

**

Down from the high country,

moving through forests

toward the trail head, 

we swim Lilian Lake, 

wade Madera Creek, 

stop for the night 

in a rock bound meadow

with time to linger 

with the thickened trunk

of an ancient Juniper Pine.

We eat, we walk and talk,

we prepare and clean, rest

and sleep—we look, we point,

laugh and smile—we hurt, we tire.

Same life, I think, differing circumstance.

Always a lot more to learn.

**

The last night of this trek is the first

I’ve not immediately fallen into sleep.

Outside the tent to pee, the Big Dipper.

The rain-fly will limit conversation 

with stars; but it’s always better to check in,

always better than not—you know, I’m here 

just the same as they, nowhere else, 

for awhile anyway. 

**

Sipping tea,

the mountain sits,

the man writes,

Heaven breathes.

Reading of Chinese poets

writing poems, writing poems.

**

I’m not convinced with plans, 

even suspicious, so have few beyond

the next coming day; but patterns

of focus do unfold pallets of pathways

of sensed conviction and root-free

intention—which means, I tend 

to just follow my nose.

**

What does it mean that mind 

is the true subject of poetry

and what does that say

of the religious 

who say this is theirs.

And is there a difference

that matters

before dawn,

before light appears

and is seen ?

**

July 23rd

“…I could not help

but chant out these brief songs.”

                       —Shih-shu (17-18 century, China)

After words…

The mountains make me sing.

I’ve been chanting now forty years

or more, more recently thinking

it had let me go; but 

the mountains

draw the heart in ways

that leave the breath 

little room to do

little more than turn

to voice on lips in song.

The mountains, they make me sing.

**

The only certainty is uncertainty,

unerringly fulfilling

all exceptions

of itself

itself.

—July 26, 2017—