Scattered notes, open sky

 —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.