August 2012

August  2012

The sleep of old age is heavy,

it lingers, holds on, even as there seems

never quite enough of it,

or so it’s been for me of late.

Except for those dark mornings of course,

the only alternative to rise before day break,

walk those slow breathing hills

that accept any careful step,

of any age,

and offer back a bedrock peace

that carries as weightless

as lingering starlight.

**

Six days in the Trinity Alps

Upper South Fork Lake

In first morning light, he slowly skirts

its western perimeter, surface

so placid it captures the entirety

of the tree-studded cirque

to the tiniest detail—I know

there’s only one of him, walking carefully

along the edge, yet I can’t decide

which one to watch.

**

Mavis Lake

The rocks hold their place

in sun and shade alike, tall pines

whisper or rush, breeze or wind,

either conversation enough.

And we sit and wait for shadows

and for the fish to find the surface, ripples

lipping stories of cloud-filled skies.

Later, we’ll walk back.

**

Fox Creek Lake is home

to fish, many fish, who eat  

only what the lake serves up.

**

Since we have a signal, I’m photographed

by phone, which sends the photo to the wives, via

the net—place, date and elevation.

All the while, I write poems of this place and time,

will carry them with me from this elevation, to everywhere

I’ll ever go, signal or no.

**

The young eagle sits on the limb,

looking down on the lake,

like us…given enough time,

it too will leave.

**

We have a plan,

hatched over two

servings of soup.

There was a bite.

Wait for the sun

to fall behind

the ridge, shadow

the waiting lake.

Try once again,

leaving dinner

to figure itself—

after brandy.

**

A poem’s worth

As if in response to the unarguable purpose of solitary song,

the setting sun suddenly illumines the lake’s eastern shore,

lifts the rising pines in witness

to the slow turn of summer

and the promise

of  a cloudless night.

**

Mavis Lake Blessing

To wake with morning’s coming,

leaving dreams behind.

To see the pines

against the sky.

To feel apart of

the closeness.

***

Three poems from San Luis Obispo

They call it the marine layer here,

the ocean’s push, above the costal range,

past the vine-filled valley, to the low slopes

where we sit in the last of its reach,

a graced witness, breath against the face,

shoulders warm in first sun light

and the cradled flutter, the silence

about the beat of hummingbirds’ wings.

*

Over too many glasses of wine, a satisfying meal,

after a long day in the hills at the edge of the ocean,

we share stories not yet told, retell ones already known,

to remember separate journeys come together

to bring us this far, to this age, to these days,

still friends, still remembered.

*

Before the sun finds its way

through layers of misted cool, he walks

the length of the drive to retrieve

the morning paper, while hummingbirds

breathe their blurred and flurried dance

at near-empty feeders,

taking all that’s offered there.

Home is what it is, implicit in time and place,

in the varied contexts of need and desire,

a web, the stretch and reach of intention

and remembrance, a resonance as nuanced

as the glance of rustled movement

from another room,

as the crunch of gravel under a foot,

a well-known path in the echo of early morning.

**

Artless

Artless, the laying down

on the page

of words of the day

turned awake of its own,

its time unfurled in those

in turn concerned

to make of the day

what it of itself would make.

Mid July

Mid July, 2012--poems

Where we stand

They stood and talked, working

their way to present circumstance,

two friends, catching up

in the whispered shift of light

that clicked in him, a place

just so, and he saw—

there it was, he thought, here it is,

given, as lived.

And with no further fanfare,

the ancients and their way

seemed no longer so distant.

**

A hundred more

and they’ll look back

on us…

**

Summer

The light at eight in the evening

in the garden seems the same

as at the earlier eight.

The sky. The quiet.

**

Where we stand--# 2

An old friend and teacher once said,

we must remember our original intention,

and I took this, as delivered, in a religious sense,

as such well enough, but the religious then

was for me so narrow  

as to preclude my truest motivation.

Spoken or recognized or not, 

the urge to first-person choice, the breakaway move

toward fulfillment, that self-conscious clarity and vision

from which all else follows—for me, was you

and all we’ve together built

and continue to build, as life speaks—

     The voice of peace of mind is response

     to the inner call that never fails,

     never interferes

     except to never relent.

     Eventual convergence, the healing rule,

     tide-like guidance of all into place

     in the greater turn

     and shifting embrace.

**

Haiku workshop

To witness, to set

the circumstance, so those who

don’t, who think they can’t,

see by doing that they can

do, with style, grace and insight.

**

Pacific Seminar 2012

The tree is still there,

the one in front of Starbucks

on Shattuck, south and west of the campus.

Berkeley, under high grey skies,

the morning chill fresh against the chest,

a few block’s walk from the center,

still there, all these how many years

since having wandered and found

an early morning cup

and sat and wondered the fate

of that scraggly street specimen

now arching some twelve feet or so

over the side walk,

still there,

so one might stand under

and look up and in

to this living canopy of green.

**

Vocation

Like marrow,

unseen, except for you,

unheard but for your name.

**

We worked into the night,

each to our tasks,

to close the day together

in that fullness

of having nothing left,

of having given all,

to having given in—

that waiting ease,

unspeakable.

**

The question

She spoke it for him, when he asked of her parents,

the unspoken riding the edge of carefully chosen words.

Knowingly, she’d nudged it, her answer turning to fruition

that normally taken as loss.

She didn’t say passed, did not use gone,

but said with a smile instead, completed, this life,

for them, completed.

And this morning, weeks later, it tipped

again, for him—that gnawing sense

of incompleteness—illumined.

Of course.

**

For Kiyo

Forgotten promise,

rising out of the tangle

of words—a friend’s name.

**

Sometimes only a whisper

but this morning, the sky waits,

hesitant patches of pale blue, high

out of the way of the blustery busyness

of ocean-sent winds,

the chimes, the great eucalyptus,

distant pines, grasses and fogs,  all aswirl

on the surging tides

of earth’s great breaths,

indigenous carriers of wonder.

**

I traveled once to Japan to see

the places my teachers had lived,

where their words might have been heard

by passers-by who had seen their eyes,

who’d measured too their human worth

over scattered snatches of breaths

shared along the trails and roadways,

beside the rush of rivers and

under shaded canopies of

cicada-filled trees—one pale face

adrift, a few pebbled handfuls

of the native tongue, specific

destinations, unobtrusive

as possible, yet taken in, turned right

at every pause and stop.

My teachers wrote often of gratitude.

Its sustaining power, its taste,

how it lingers, how it holds true

even in the tangled scratches, the marks of a life 

carefully lifted and placed on the page.

The freely given gratefully returned

to a world so much in need of it.

Toward Summer

Through the thatch of bamboo,

a stuttered flash of spinning chimes.

**

Even dim light casts shadows,

the attentive ear hears the faintest shuffle 

and peace rests in the details

of the daily life

of those who take the time

without asking more.

**

It has its way with me, well before day’s turn, the moon,

pushing light through stained-glass, scatters

broken colors, dark’s dreams, across waking tides,

and I rise

in the secret air of first bird calls.

There’s no question of earth’s place at this time

of aloneness, as all and every wait

their proper turn in the palpable presence

of rightness—yes, it is this

that carries the entirety to fruition.

**

The slightest suggestion across the feathered breast

moves the world in ways unplanned, unsuspecting beings

we are, recording minutia of living-dying, what it is,

every nuance encoded exactness, passed on

to rise or not, occasion to occasion—hints on the wind

may alter our direction, influence how we go

about it, but make no mistake,

move to move, we choose.

**

The cabin at Calistoga

Before the birds, leaves stir, the branches

nearest the screen door, slow sunlight

follows retreating chill—not a whisper.

The door’s ajar, the key dangles its fob,

occasional cars, shrouded in distance,

place us safe, unseen,

together breathing.

**

For Nanao

I’m here, so I write,

here, thus I chant

and let this body-voice

chant me

welling tears—this moment

enough, each moment the point.

**

A refrain

returns to

foundation. 

So listen

well, listen

for refrain.

For refrain’s

home, calls you

back. Answer.

**

Waking early, with gout…

the displeasing wrongness

of it all so pervasive even dreams

message throughout the night

till morning still in darkness,

to wake with pain and wounded spirit

even as day has just begun

that floundering 

the slide of desperation,

at best lingering sadness—unless

until recognition,

recognition of limitedness,

of itself the unlimited recognized

as point of demarcation, horizon

of the truth of our living met

with working wisdom

a lighted point

of what’s true and what’s real:

that point where the poem is.

.

Splashes in the stream

To study dharma

is to study the self, as it comes,

as it goes.

If she’s not herself,

then who am I—all alone,

the wife’s really sick.

**

The hummingbird darts

in and out, a brief visit—

flowers along the rail.

**

She asks for something cold. I get it,

worrying that my coffee

will cool.

**

White and gray cumulous re-gather,

                  chasing the blue

                          that chased them away.

**

Old friends, the monk

and the minister huddle in conversation

over current medications.

**

The wife in the hospital,

I sleep on her side,

use her pillow—in the silence.

**

Late night—the wife in the hospital,

waiting procedures—and I at play

with vows

or is it prayers or deals

or offerings to stem the tide?

**

Amidst the swirl

of un-answerables,

the smallest next step,

pronounced aloud,

pulls the foot forward—

the only certainty.

**

Having no idea what day it is,

I work the numbers back and forth, 

hoping to reclaim the present

with a name—

**

The nembutsu spirit…

It’s movement, movement

through familiar terrain

that smoothes the tangled tasks

of new challenge

with the taste of readiness.

Forcing myself out of bed

at the regular hour, to stretch,

to the street and curve and climb,

the distant bay

in thoughtless periphery.

Each step littered

with accrued anxiety discarded

of itself, self-patterned breaths

tracing true the sound of the real

way home,

sitting, lying down, walking,

Namuamidabutsu

**

The pine stands its own

against the distant back drop

of gray, the great eucalyptus too,

and the tall palm. All quiet,

quite dignified in their place,

while I who barely merit a silhouette,

seem somehow to believe

it is I who tower…

**

To wonder

if one has

yet to live.

I wonder,

is this

a question

for concern,

of regret,

celebration

or renewal?

I mean, I ask

and having asked,

looking now

to the sky—

what a wonder!

**

Friends

Looking out at the morning hills, as we often do.

The rise most near lifts pale green grasses

into cloudless skies, the downward slope to the north

and west, revealing the distant ridgeline

that overlooks canyons not visible from here.

Varied shades of spring green, peppered with the light

colored faces of the houses of this small community.

The great eucalyptus that leans to the corner

of the window, the porch railing, quivering ornaments.

The blanket covering my legs. The warmth.

And on the table, the large burnished vase,

full with multi-colored flowers,

sending signals of wishes

for a quick recovery.

**

And through the door,

the many containers, warmed

with the heft and sustenance

of love.

May Day

May Day,

clear and

windless,

quiet

morning

dreams of

living

quiet.

Questions

of point,

of what

it adds,

let go

into

quiet.

It says,

listen,

it says,

look here,

what is

added

is peace.

**

Early, this morning, rising early,

on the streets, in the hills

before the touch of the sun, before

the birds overhead begin

their throated reverie,

silent sentinels, lined and listening,

the passing stranger

wandering below,

listening

for the slightest signal

of the day’s first call

to song.

**

Deep Mind

Certain truths

simply sink in over time

so thorough that question

has no where to stand,

affirmation dances loose

as a scented petal, and

efforts to ignore or to discard

resonate ever more deeply.

**

You don’t have to close this door

just because you open

that one.

**

The moon, nearly full,

passed by the window last night,

so quiet its work,

washing dark’s dust clean away,

even gout’s throbbing

could be heard.

**

It’s like this…

like everything’s already there,

yet differently heard,

like a familiar stream in deep forests

that you know is there

delights each time with a different voice—

you know it by its surprise…

**

It suddenly dawns on us:

we’re going to doctors’ appointments,

together !

**

Sandino David

May 7, 2012

Everywhere is home

for the sage, everyone family.

But for me, there are certain places

where rest comes easiest

and this tiny, early arrival speaks

to me, as only my grandchildren can.

Too early for us to even touch,

still he shakes me—while my son,

his father, wills the earth to steady,

the air around him trembles

as he looks at his wife, and I

reach for my own.

Though they say,

anywhere can be home.

**

It’s like this…

like sunshine over wind-blown grasses

penetrates

single-minded practice reaches

the deepest recesses

the silent presence of Buddha

spreads everywhere

namuamidabutsu, namuamidabutsu

**

The change

The dream was more deep-throated moan

than cry, the weighted change of recognition

rather than decision, the slow, scraping halt

itself implied transition forward

inarticulate, yet specific, message

carried complete

—the arrow’s own movement—

no longer a matter of what to do,

but what’s happening here

plans and calculations jettisoned

in the wake of open wonder

in clear and unhindered skies 

Well into April, 2012

Of light

Let this then, meager as it is,

at least begin to approach

appropriate praise:

It plays, it lays, it bounces and beams,

it warms and glows, grays and dims, and dazzles,

it glitters, sparkles, drenches, and it shines,

it blinds and awakens.

It permeates, it penetrates and it presences

—it announces the absence of darkness,

whispers discernment of shadow and shade,

reveals every nuance of color and depth.

It informs as it knows, spreads in itself

and sustains in its touch—its songs are in tongues

as varied as weeds, and its voice is as silent

as the enlightenment it shares.

**

Well, it could be said, many things might,

but to no real end except

the unraveled meaninglessness,

whereat joy is somehow unwrapped

as foundation—what then, really,

is there to say?

**

So easy here…

with a few strokes

I could produce a rooster.

I mean, who would know?

They were plentiful

in Philippine mornings

like this, dark, rising early

to remind us of things

needing doing soon! And so,

why not—I‘ve heard one here

time to time, fleeting.

A gesture, almost,

here, where things

are not as pressing, perhaps…

and so, we still sleep.

**

The third month of the new year

has slipped clean away

and we find ourselves early in spring,

in the wake of so much

already underway, so much looming,

all somehow so sudden, yet simply

ongoing movements

of not so hidden currents

in the shifting tides of earth energies

awash in the sway of the heavens.

Here, where we stand,

that lean and tilt

toward extending light.

That’s it.

Do you see?

**

Unhurried hands, slow strokes,

peel the carrots clean

to peace of mind.

**

Fog lingers in pines

already heavy with rains

—much loved company.

**

All day, all night, rain.

In the pause of first light,

the birdfeeder sways.

**

Finally, a hummingbird

at the feeder—it’s empty.

**

So sharp the blue

above the green

hills alive

with blossoms and buds.

Hidden cocoons.

Between here and there

only steps

not yet taken.

**

Hard-blown sunbeams

fold and dapple in light

covering itself.

**

Were we attentive enough,

we might hear;

but we can still follow

the fulsome sphere

of the waning moon descend

below the horizon,

only to leave rising silver

quiver its goodbye

to dimming stars.

**

Listen…

in the gentle pull of attention—

rain slow to drips, hanging things sway,

anticipation settle, soft rivulets

run their course to doubt relieved, body

and mind return cleansed

of all but trust, native, blood-carried words

broken free into breath

to find their own way.

**

Where philosophy falls short…

after a long night and slow morning,

leaving my wife resting, recuperating,

I turn to the ancient poets

before preparations

for the day’s many tasks,

seeing in their lives and concerns

the mirror of my own,

the sweet sorrowed treasures

of tradition that reluctantly savors

the honeyed milk, the many and beloved

shortcomings of our shared humanity.

Meetings with teachers

Meeting with my teacher

looks like this:

like morning fog

brushing canyon tops

releases streams

that lead the way back.

**

The old masters wrote

of winter’s long nights,

of emptied trees, of snow’s weight

sighed away in spring streams,

rivered trickles of dew drops

carrying oceans carrying

sun-lit moon light.

Of these things, I would write.

**

Can’t say, even at this age, I know who I am.

Keep writing, walking, and the rest follows, mostly

work of love. Incense at day’s end, a song,

moments of quiet, together—as all comes to rest,

the wish for justice in a troubled world.

**

For Juan Carter

--Spring Equinox

Half way through my walk,

half way, crossing the black top,

a banana slug….

**

Fluid and porous:

the distinctions we think

hold and frame our lives.

**

Curious, that those

with heart beats, resist both change

and its presumed end.

**

After meeting with the teacher,

relief—he doesn’t know, either.

**

I write and people read. Amazing

and no small thing—liberated horizons

mean everything.

**

Tending as we do,

as a matter of habit, toward loneliness,

we are in fact never alone.

**

Looking closely, I see my living

largely haphazard, unfulfilled intentions

and broken promises…

Namuamidabutsu

**

Any place will do

Truth-seeking poets seek nowhere to stand,

pass away their time watching

for flashes and flickers in the flow,

following what catches attention

for the moment—leave it all at that.

Just a life.

**

Night rains slow and cease,

darkness holds still,

and doves wait their signal.

**

The pause…

It’s often the first words, fresh

off the tongue that are most telling,

even while we’re not so sure

what was meant to be said.

Is it possible to rest there

in the question, savor the uncertainty,

before circling, tightening?

**

**

Cool morning. The pine

lets its scent fall

to the street.

**

Why poetry?

Fundamental to human spirit is unity,

thoroughgoing correspondence within

the entirety of energies of the universe

—which is why we can’t catch it.

And neither can they.