—San Luis Obispo
Travel begins—first,
getting ready begins first
with that first cup.
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calling to flora
by name, nodding to others,
leaning in, to listen
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Sun’s rise lifts the chill.
A new neighborhood rolls out,
as if from under…
**
I think: collecting
random haiku from poets
who don’t think they are.
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Shadows scratch shingles.
Towering in the backyard,
figs, avocado.
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So quiet the house,
even passing traffic whispers.
Light fills walls white,
hardwood floors blond
with warmth.
**
We talk without masks.
The waitress pours coffee, the cream,
speaks of promised heat.
**
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Orange County sun rises gold,
flashes east facing windows
before dressing the day.
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Dog owners here walk
at sunrise, carry cell phones,
not plastic baggies.
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Palm trees sweep the clouds,
make room for traffic-hum…
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—Wayfarer Hotel, LA
Silent, sunlight creeps
beneath the shade, strokes woodgrains,
climbs the painted frame.
But street sounds, just rise, enter
and spread, however they will.
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Instant coffee, a spoon,
sweets on a tray by the stove.
Son’s wife, a daughter.
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Family dinner talk
carries textures that sustain
long term. Bits and pieces missed,
not real loss. Ask the old man,
quietly drinking it in.
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Though actually chilly,
morning windows stay open.
Sounds stay distant, small.
Silence lets them pass.
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Palm fonds say
sky says
clouds say
no rain
so softly
birds say
get closer.
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Journal on the knee,
penmanship better—maybe
even poems made.
**
Pen’s ink starts to dry,
tip falter—I write faster,
press the heart of it.
**
A dove’s double-count staccato
echos—out there: buildings,
empty space.
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Nembutsu slips in, it does,
quietly opened surface revealing
lingering presences.
**
poet-priest, poet
as priest rendered so
in the sanctity of speech
—no office gifted, none held—
temporary vessel,
worded mystery
pointing always
beyond itself
**
**
**
—Carlsbad
The ice-maker makes
cold water, cools lips and throat
—groans, but no rattles.
No air conditioning. Fans
and open windows remind us.
Tomatoes are sold
around the corner, ants build
in sidewalk cracks, and
people plant trees—magnolia,
maple, with little hanging balls.
Yards are mostly dry.
Birds skitter, gather, scatter.
Rabbit habitat.
Short-ears, white tails and rumps.
Crows poke at the one on the road.
Grey-haired people jog
the hill top—the grey ocean,
from here, all silence.
**
Trains tell us they’re here.
No one in particular,
but everyone knows.
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Like clock work, the world
gives us all it has, every time,
like it or not.
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Mostly, just like that,
it goes clicking along,
life here listening
to little life noises
over there,
the life there,
so much mine,
the clicking,
there or here,
the same.
**
Morning sky cool grey.
The woman walks the dog—we,
all three share rain drops.
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Quietly, the clock clocks.
A train passes opened blinds,
orange trees—awake.
Sleep seen for what it is or was,
is waking to now not missed.
**
Why regret
my religion
has moved me
beyond itself
—wasn’t that
always the point ?
**
Even when left to ourselves,
every choice is made
in relation to, in concert with
all other makings, ever—
rest here a bit, see what this says
that might come to words
found sufficient to satisfy
this,
then, then listen
to what your heart says
to this—say that.
**
The ocean hangs there
just below the horizon,
deeper shades of grey
looking up at the sky’s
looking back, like me—
we three.
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The blinds, angles slight,
catch deflected light, keeping
quiet in the room.
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Angels—a signal
on the screen, if believed, mean
everything’s different.
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**
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Fog drips the streets dim
with grey layered screens, strange
rooms not entered yet.
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Stepping out altered,
versions of our old worlds
seeping pandemic cracks.
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Why this seems crucial,
these tracks made, so few will see,
I truly can’t say.
A trusted teacher once asked
how it all works, didn’t know.
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First jacaranda
blossoms make their way to light
lavender branch tips.
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Rippling breezes
gather the blossoms to dance
to their own music.
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The wife complains of cold.
My feet feel welcome chill. Who
controls the window?
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The sun breathes deeper
than morning breezes—clouds reach
for the afternoon.
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The religious mind
is no more mine than breath is—
given, given back.
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The crystalline creek
flows a wrinkled clarity
become smooth when stone.
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At this juncture, words
aloud seem much too heavy—
but tongue still ripples.
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Having just arrived—
is how it feels, but the chair
is warm, my cup right there.
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Foolish old man thinks
it’s the same walk every day,
thinks he’s the same too,
yet doesn’t think it odd flowers
come to bloom and whither gone.
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Is that sky’s quiet
or mountain’s
or simply a mistake
to attempt to name?
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If Buddha’s presence
is a given, who is it
that keeps popping up?
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Despite all my wandering and doubt,
life’s central intent,
to bring every existence
to fullest fruition,
at work all the time.
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