—Scattered notes, open sky
In the world outside the window,
two twisted pines, pliant sunlight,
dappled bark—crow calls
I cannot hear.
**
a poem can enact peace
because true
because of
attention
given
**
at times words too
lean a way
to let light
**
the story tells
a man steps out
to see Hawk circle
and he follows,
never returning—and I believe
trees know that same sky
**
**
—Comments on Commandments
Apostles of peace
doggedly waging
holy wars.
Heaven Forbid
we’d ever presume
to retort.
**
Those other lives
I dream of
keep popping up
here and there
but over the years
I’ve tended
to stick with
this one—I mean
it’s always close
at hand.
**
Even using one of those caulking guns
to seal the sheathing on the roof
with that black, tar-like stuff
leaves a good taste, task-wise,
doin’ stuff around the house,
in the yard, taking care of things
that take care of us—I want to tell
the wife I hear bells of the eternal
in this, but instead tell her
I’ve finished.
**
Sitting in the shade
in the swing, the sun drops,
light changes, air chills
and Santoka’s life and words
lift from the pages
a quiet presence.
**
Fans turn. Hillside lights shine.
We end the day with bared feet
propped up.
**
Morning sun
comes from north
of east, bringing heat.
What brings this peace ?
**
Like Santoka, I too walked the hills
of Mount Kugami
to sit with Ryokan
at Gogo-an,
green leaves waving
in my eyes too.
**
Quiet,
the sunlight through the blinds
slips in to touch
one finger, then two,
then the wrist and up—heatless
presence
statement enough.
**
Along the trail
this morning
leaves held
night’s chill—
with me,
nembutsu.
**
Folded and creased,
wrinkled, torn and scratched-on
pieces of life-stuff
breathed into being.
**
The nightingale refuses to rest.
Evening breeze, fluttering
shadows.
**
The young junko
pips and pips, one wire
to the next.
**
A butterfly, small and white, hides
in evening shadowing leaves.
**
Grey silence
shifts to depthless blue,
water bubbles to boil, and
restless questions lift away
to somewhere:
**
Forgetting who he was,
he then was who he was.
**
Poem: a taste
of the timeless time
of mountain canyons
as the ink dries.
—after Basho
**
The crow, hidden in the pine
as our eyes finally meet, speaks twice
more than my once, then drops
a small bunch of needles
at my feet.
**
Do you think
it is earth’s sensitivities
our feet feel in the dirt ?
**
All mankind has to offer,
including that which I revile,
I do time to time find
right here in myself:
the world in me
in the world.
**
The heat wave blurs
even the day’s name—we feel
our way into night-fall.
**
The altar flowers
drop their petals slowly,
the front-most among them,
the only left to feel
this window-let light,
still gently lifting up.
**
—Morning, after…
and those times when pen and paper
draw nothing helpful and
empty means blank,
and the chest, it gently moves, anyway, just
the same, and coffee is bitter hot, the stomach
asks, fingers stretch
and once rejected life-lines resurface
for taking.
**
Marine-layer cools bay waters,
the sun mirrors orange
and a crow
settles: elegant shadow,
blue sky and
a telephone pole.
**
Tiny flecks
of fog drop
to my face
crows taste
in flight.
**
A turn of the head
and light
clears fogs and
inner reveries
make way
for new day.
**
By the time the mopping
and bathroom cleaning is done,
unexpected morning tensions
find their own way out the door.
Doing often does that.
**
—Learned from the breeze today
When the asked-for comes
and is used completely
is thanks—
capacities recognized as givens
empty ego-puff, allow room
for real sharing—
open-heart doing trusts
even its own doubts are held
in the whole.
