Tuesday, June 25, 2024

Words, words, words live

 




  —Owl Canyon


The water at the bottom of the creek

meets the marsh in creviced spreading voice

that differs from up-land,


speaks here to wild grass and petals,

to what’s only theirs to hear, allows us 


but to listen and to look.



**



Bird on the line, squirrel 

on the ground—cold breeze blowing.


These walks…how much longer…



**



Death doesn’t end,

she says,

until life does.

Lean in, then,

to living.



**



Quiet

mists drift


lips and

eyelids


float as

petals pass



freshness.



**



Unswervingly intentioned

intelligence and purpose

are soulmates.



**



Just…

coming 

to wholly understand 

the unity 

of all that sings me 

singing me…

Just that.



**



I try 

not to argue

who I am.



**



Dappled light, the sun

through leaves, shadowed touch

of vines 


outside the window 

above the workbench, scattered tools

waiting their turn.



**



A slow walk,

morning chill, 

chanting softly


for the all that’s given

just because, for the joy

in that, just because.



**



All last night the winds 

demanded the roof, 

but couldn’t get it.


This morning, without asking,

sunlight slips through the window

just to visit.



**



Nancy Tilden


my first real teacher

often spoke of the light


I clearly remember there

in her eyes


after all these so many years

I still, like her, look for.



**



A silver sheen of blurred mists lifts

from the waters of the bay


to screen the sun’s sky 

with moistened kisses.


**



Listening to Tagore


The thrill of the risings of songs of thanks

filling the chest with musics of joyous smiles

too fine for words even so carefully offered.



**



Sunlight fell 

both at the edge of the window

and on the thumb and fingered edging

of the journal resting on the knee,

then slipped elsewhere.


I’d forgotten the first time

alone chanting, I cried,

and too a time a presence so strong

my heart skipped for days

before it passed to past.


But I see now that what we do 

without reason demanding

is life’s doing, 


life selecting direction,

whether we see it that way or not,

till we catch up.



**



Winter weeds and grasses summer 

to almost waist high, trails squeeze and flowers 

burrow out from browned and drying stalks—winter 

is green here; hills tan in summer—abundance 

is the constant, and will share as much as we let it.



**



The last few pages of journals

I’ve lived in, thin to feint but definite calls

to the next


waiting patiently somewhere

for that firm-felt press

of first-laid words


heard in the final trickling 

of earlier voicings.



**



A dance,

this dance,

dances—


finding

the dance

living

in you

revives

in you

your dance,


your age

dropping

away

in the breeze.



**



Honeysuckle petals,

golden yarrow, coyote mint,

quiet coasting jays.


If any name is sacred,

then all are to be sung so,


says the poet.



**


the zen teacher

who says flowers don’t talk

hasn’t spoken with bees either



**



I can tell every time 

when I’ve stayed too long


with the scholars—my feet 

forget how to skip…