—February 1, 2018
where were you when the moon turned red
in the shadow of our passing
before the sun
**
horizons meet sky earlier today
speak to the pink of slow-coming light
whose day-turning voice
makes old to new
an unanswerable question
of untellable joy
**
From where I sit, the moon.
Hillside homes, sun’s rays—touch, warmth.
Affinity, glow.
**
Song of My Self
The last thing I recall before letting go
is the lack of question, grip loosed into
inevitable embrace—elements, all elements,
every energy and field ever, each following
inherently inscribed inclinations, enhanced
by all others in relation—our sense of is-ness,
each unrepeatable subjectivity, a blessing
upon us all.
**
one value of the attitude of
non-aggression
is space, space enough
to notice enough
to care
**
puddles collect dreams
streets don’t like to share
passing stars keep watch
for signs of daylight
**
the darkness the other side the window
reflects the lighted room mirror-like
the exact opposite image exactly opposite me
exacting the fathomless mystery
behind it all
**
Squinting into afternoon sunlight
a satsuma orange, the last, peers
out from under a part in the green
right into my eyes—we pause,
then lean as if not noticing.
**
the phrase has generative power
the sentence cannot properly hold, end point
leaving breath bereft of traction enough
to reach through to the next,
exhaustion the only remaining meaning,
remaining unsaid
**
first to blossom each year,
the almonds—seventeen
syllables of thanks
**
Omine Sensei…
as he walked, bowed low
to each blossom, close, intent,
asking for its name
**
Words and our relation to world,
unfathomable, succinct, leaf-like.
**
The ancient Buddhist philosophers believed the longest measure
of consciousness related to sense perception consists of seventeen
thought-instances, each briefer than a lightening flash—how curious
the measure of haiku.
The magic of seventeen syllables
cannot be attributed.
**
If it can’t qualify as haiku,
then let’s call it
a short poem.
**
almond and plum
flower the garden
into early spring
**
pruning back branch tips
just before buds show—thinning
waits for longer days
**
once it came, no one complained
that the light was too dim
**
the report back
numbers, always numbers,
countless and bloodless
without the stories, stories breathing
life to faces coming clear,
coming up from under the overwhelming
to find someone’s eyes there
—February 10, 2018
