Of course,
the flower seems to say
its song is of the sun, of course,
but its song, nonetheless.
**
Sensei once said, “your shinjin
is your poetry—keep writing.”
I didn’t understand for quite some time,
till now, even,
he was pointing to one thing,
not two.
**
Something dear dangles
silent truth there just beyond the reach
of the tongue, strangely satisfying.
**
Having never been long on vision,
never long on longing for this or that,
immediate accomplishments (like getting up)
have paved the way of deep satisfactions.
Being together forever
is done everyday,
together…
**
With nothing particular to do,
we can do anything, so let’s do that.
Leave the door a’jar, the world’s already in.
**
Without my glasses, I know the hummingbird
by only its quick-shift movements
among the blossoms, each one, each one,
scattered along the fence, clear intentions
bringing focus to mine.
But it’s not the stops; if so, she would. It’s
the movement it’s about, the taste, the thought,
the word, the poem—all about the movement, one
beat among the others of the movements of the heart,
not where it stops.
**
A word here or there, a group perhaps,
pre-sent, present-caught, amidst the flow,
tell us something that turns the head to listen,
and even if not repeatable, we know.
**
Spoken aloud words
resonate presence
inner and outer landscapes
echo.
**
Come dark, sun-energized lights that string the lattice
work every time without announcement, silent appearance
as quiet a surprise as a smile pointed your way that you catch
well after it’s begun, an intimate tinge, the addition of subtraction
of self-consciousness, like lines of prose found holding the music
of poems.
**
I pretend
to know myself,
but no such luck.
My name’s been called,
and over and again I’ve looked
in different directions,
though my teachers assure me
its the hearing that counts, the rest
working itself out.
**
The sun explodes Christmas morning
in bursts of illumined clouds of salmon-pink
and reaching streaks that seem to speak
to no-one but me—not a thing a’stir but the weave
of light, solitary leafs,
the shifting grey from ocean to bay
and singular drops of rain.
**
It’s words relating that happens
on the page and on voice-opened air.
In the limitless ranges of listening,
signals abound—like moss does to north
and petals leaning to call the south,
people speak to who you are to them.
Revelations can occur; reflection too.
**
Obi Kaufmann, California naturalist, artist,
activist, and writer, once said that poetry is
“the ability to witness and interpret interrelated
moments of insight brought together by epiphany
and serendipity” (I almost forgot philosopher).
As for me, Jerry Bolick, an ordinary california buddhist
bombu, somewhat uncomfortable with notions of ability,
of interpretive skills, poetic or otherwise, clear resonance
lies in those gifted moments of “epiphany and serendipity.”
My part, to simply be there, and to follow.
That said, I continue to study and learn from Obi,
a fine teacher indeed, and no matter how he sees it,
a true friend on the way.
**
Coyote Brush is as common as dirt hereabouts,
dense bushed reaching branches extending
fully curled with small dull leaves
into a delicate pirouette,
pursed at the tips like the kiss
of a tiny green rose
which in winter gives rise to tight white lips
of new seed
that burst suddenly splayed tangles
of hair thin surprise and promise
spreading the hills like snow flakes.
**
—Back deck observatory 12/29
Orion steps out from the south,
but the full moon
ranging high in the sky
grabs his light before the telescope
can catch it: this winter night
is the moon’s—Orion demurs
and so do I.
**
As morning darkness asks light to return,
I ask out loud outside, what year follows
this one—nothing answers.
**
—12/31
A late morning in bed
watching the moon find its way
in the brightening day,
the final horizon’s rising of so troubled a year,
even the neighborhood dogs
wait in quiet.
