Coming home...

 

I have gained a comprehension of truth

from minute matters rather than…texts or…

meditation.     —Dae Hæng Sunim

heart quickens

at the foot of the trail

sun breaks the horizon

**

Through and through the breath

works the wonder 

of wind-song.

**

Once upon a place

footsteps took me headlong

through ocean mists

roaming canyon walls

in search of bottom

to rest—I let my feet 

point the way.

**

—My oldest friend

showed me 

many first-time things: jazz,

Greenwich Village,

Beat authors,

Thunderbird wine,

how trust asks no

payback, how silly-

ness is joy-full,

now shows me time

for our dying 

is close.

I’m told he smiles

at my stupid

phone call 

jokes.

**

She calls, says you’re gone.

Curtains curl with the breeze—blue sky,

the color of your eyes.

**

Empty Labor Day

freighters dot its face—the bay

glimmers of sunlight.

**

Small flocks of small birds

in morning hillside sunlight

keep their distance.

**

Walking. Wondering 

what’s been told.

Breeze eases me.

**

blue botanist flags

planted in brown grass and weeds

wait for spring to see

**

Nap time on the couch 

yesterday left pain

in the neck,

morning coffee leaves 

a clearing mind,

eyes take in new day, 

old one gone

along with

the pain 

in the neck—my wife

goes shopping:

transience,

we live it.

**

The breeze comes

waving through

open window 

channels

of relief-giving moves

that surrender

day’s heat

to the street

it takes in.

**

I keep walking,

jays keep calling,

phone lines 

keep swinging.

**

For me it’s been nembutsu, 

even when I try to turn away, 

it doesn’t: nembutsu, for me

—not a matter of what I do,

rather what actually is 

being done…that.

**

Waking early—lingering darkness

shows earth’s shift and turn 

toward the fall of summer months

to winter’s distant coming.

**

Voice

a presence 

irreplaceable  

to Heart

**

All this talk

of crossing over,

great returns, etc.,

so much blather 

about nothing.

But it’s been good,

like blossoming 

flowers, but mostly like

wild grasses and weeds !!

**

Where have we gone

so that we think

of return—where

do we think there

is to go ?

**

Like all other bodies

ours wither—earth-matter, 

air and time all have something

to say about it.

**

A No 2 pencil, HB Soft, you know,

the yellow wooden ones 

are what my friend the artist uses, 

so I do—when he tells me 

“its nice,” the world smiles 

the way a child’s does.

**

Buddha’s name

bubbles up

silently

calling lips

to play too.

**

Seems like lots of things

these days shake with anger 

heavy airways

that I don’t feel 

when I’m not facing 

the TV. 

A handful of people, at best, decide

how the day’s headlines will read,

then go home for dinner.

Their tables may be set the same as ours,

but maybe not.

**

Mists so thick, all drips—

trees, grasses, me—petals flash 

rippled weaving winds.

**

(noun as presence felt)

Hummingbird waits

on Phone Line,

Cement Buddha with Leaf

and Almond Tree.

No longer lost, Breath

grants renewed 

commitment: 

Air chills bare Arms, Thought 

rises and falls, Quiet blankets—yellow 

Flower lifts in bunches, 

Pots along Porch Railing drink Coolness—

Dog barks, Plane passes, 

Bird calls out.

**

—Pilgrim

Morning quiet,

orange sunrise,

wingless sky—

where shadowed streets

take every step

offered there a place to stay 

and to leave from.

Morning quiet, wingless sky,

care-full shadows.

**

To turn

to see

in

window framed

sky

stars 

blink back.

**

**

**

—Some thoughts on

           the current state of union:

Not objects, 

poems actively reveal poets 

to themselves. Reading deeply, 

truly hearing, wipe away

dusts too.

*

But for leather chair

crinkles, morning carries

surprise chills, open windows

wandered by silence seeking

itself, yet ready for 

whatever 

when it comes.

*

Thinking something new, then

yesterday’s poem interrupts

with news about itself.

*

My day-to-day mind

is like leaves

the tree watches

blow in the wind.

*

Or those days when substance

seems imperative, but everything

lingering about is nearer

to something rather silly,

weightless—I mean, wha-d-ya-doo

with self-importance 

when you just can’t seem

to get it to fit ?

*

We can hang on, go back,

resurrect, 

or at least we think we can,

think, that is, from here-now 

bout there-then,

or we can leave it all in the dust 

it really is

to walk there into that blue sky,

or even better 

into this one here.