“Old man Lao ‘Tzu…”
that poet, Saijo speaks like that,
thinks like that, wonders; but Thoreau,
to whom he, we, look too, didn’t live to “old,”
stands different a figure for us, nonetheless
stands, like Lao Tzu,
where his own two feet
hit the ground,
finding his way
there,
like us,
in his now.
**
last night’s deep sleep dreaming
of others’ teachers, remembering
my own, wondering of that dream
what it means of what’s been left
undone
**
Morning is beautiful
and I’m not
actually growling
but close,
when the sun reaches over
to touch me, just so…
what else can I do
but give in.
**
That dull click
of the light switch
before I put
my hearing aids in
sounds like
dim morning light
before the sun finds
the windows.
**
There have been many
morning airport breakfasts
and this one like so many
manages to slow tensioned rush
and arrival anxieties
to a quiet dribble barely heard
on announcement filled air.
**
attention becomes sacrament
where questioning stops—awe
is the mirror, the guide,
the trustworthy voice
**
it began for us, you know,
with that elevator kiss
here on Oahu—fifty-eight years later,
I nod to the young couple,
ask what floor number
to press for them
**
Twenty-one years old now,
the granddaughter shares her life
and studies, her dreams. Mornings
begin slow. Coffee, palm-tree tops,
green mountains rising, and her shoes,
sand-embedded, resting from yesterday’s
north-shore excursion. Later, when she wakes,
she’ll jump into our bed, as she always has.
**
meandering along
without ideas,
no direction,
absent purpose,
seeming empty
even after
multiple lines
of four counts each,
wondering what
those old masters
were thinking of
when seeking
emptiness
after all—
no guard rails,
edges gone,
no one there
to ask
but these bared breaths
rushing by,
sounding like song…
**
catching my image
in the mirror across the room,
ruminating,
silently wondering
what the pen will say
of meaning
without
my help
**
if you’ve not
noticed of late
I’m taking sent breaths in
as they come,
sending them off
as they choose
and relishing everything
in-between
as if it were
mine
**
the turned page crinkles
clipped sound, an envelope slip
of curled pressure on crossed thighs,
a wrist’s weight of thoughts
applied to waiting lines
that might well have been left
as clean and free as the thoughts
might have been
presents the poet’s conundrum:
creativity or contrivance ?
**
—Hawaiian equinox
just outside the sliding doors,
roosters and chickens
peck the grass clean, showers
prepare the earth
**
—on Kauai
the woman
at the coffee machine asks,
what does it feel like at eighty-three—
I fumble around with “grateful, gratitude,”
blah, blah, but really wish I had my journal
to look for her answer there (here), where
I’d point to these diamond-glistening drops
left behind on the leaves, in the grass
by last night’s rains, for this morning’s sun
to show to me—that feeling
**
and turning times,
natural histories of sharing,
of seeking, of study, of song,
of friendship and willing teachers,
their passing, can steadily lead
to the seemingly barren
and lonely letting go
where in wonder
the way
finds you
**
writing, writing, writing—
writing …words unfold, unfurl, unmask,
reveal
flowering finger-tip songs
of saying-living—
longings scribed and scratched,
hand-pressed pages waving
myriad turnings
writing, writing, writing…
**
the egret walks on waters
of the lagoon
spreads and flutters
wings of white on white
and walks on
**
the lilac
along the fence
blossoms first
deep purple-blueish petals
trimmed white
slowly followed by
shapely green
leaves
**
to sit
morning
watching
is not
to be
observed
so much
as absorbed
deep surround
full brimmed
open
fear-less
**
—for Robert Lax:
garden work
is peace work
quietly
I pull weeds,
then write
about it
**
“Sometimes all you can do is tie your own shoes, and that’s an art in itself.”
—Robert Lax
