Zihuatanejo, et al

Zihuatanejo, et al—poems

10/15

Forget sentiment—compassion flowers 

the concrete—the hand offers 

the sandwich.

**

10/16

Grace—simplicity undenied.

**

Morning prayers unfold life 

urging awake its own

first music.

**

10/17

The heart’s gestures, 

not so difficult to hear,

offered there 

behind touching palms.

**

10/18

Mornings tend lingering, allow potentials 

the peripheries, to mull meanings 

not ready to be pronounced.

**

Morning leaves hold 

breezes night held 

only by sound.

**

10/20

Old friend, it’s always been down hill.

**

10/22

Sedona

High desert blossoms are tiny.

Birds smaller than sparrows

flit and drop

though budding branches

and chilled traces

of last night’s dreams.

**

11/2

That we can see 

that it’s dark

tells us of light 

we can’t see. 

**

on the oak creek road to flagstaff, 

an american buddhist history unfolds

in detail run through together

with the breath and sound and sight 

of all of its touchings—wrists here hold beads 

that sing of high country juniper

**

11/3

The moon—one mark 

of presence giving light,

even when shadowed.

***

Zihuatanejo, Mexico

11/5

Roosters are the true language 

of the tropics.

**

in the dawn sky

a bird clings

to an unfurled palm

**

Fire fighters here

wear navy blue t-shirts,

rise before the sun 

to sweep the drive 

and finger smart phones.

**

At the municipal beach, 

fisherman spread their catch on tarps

spread on sand under the palms.

Nescafe is sold from on open jar,

spoon and cups provided; locals

know the price.

**

11/9

Once asked how, at all, it has changed my life,

I could only answer that as I’ve aged,

I’ve come to feel younger.

**

old friends

resonate 

in volumes

akin to

angels’ smiles—

what else more

could one want

to hear ?

**

11/16

Contemplation

Stepping to the side to dry off,

to more fully appreciate

the wetness.

**

Speaking quietly, the aging master said 

all he’d ever really wanted was to learn to live 

to the limits given—the rest had come of its own.

**

I don’t know how much,

or little, I can say

of that which gives rise to all

and everything, each occurrence

of every and all, except that

it so irrefutably does.

**

11/17

Gold Country

To the robbin and to the jay

that nod hello

there by the tree with red leaves,

by the creek,

whom I would not have met

had I not ignored

that second nag of a voice

that always says no

to the ever-affirming first;

to them all then, save none,

yes, good, it’s morning

with us.

**

Likely in winter a creek runs 

the bottom of the embankment

at the back of the condo where we stay,

looking down from the patio in the rear, 

table and chairs for four, coffee 

chilling in brisk air, likely 

many things have run these quiet hills 

over time, and will again over time, 

as our time too is done—the deer 

walking in the drive down the road 

told me so.

**

11/19

Paris

Don’t think that any one of us

has only one life, 

that the flowers will not return

to fields seemingly barren.

Even the three-year old knows 

people with flowers protect us 

from those with guns—we’ve not lost,

but we do need to be who we are

with ever greater intensity.

September Into October

9/4

And so, with nothing left 

to be done, one might then

make marks here and there 

across the open spread page,

leave songs or other signs 

for those who follow. 

**

9/10

Weeks unfold days’ unending unfolding.

Horizonless dreams cradle seamless returns

to the waiting light.

**

Buddha’s gift: the presence of unquestioning silence.

**

9/19

Secrets and lies turn in sun light 

to so much brushed off dust.

**

9/25

It would be a lonely world 

without the written word,

he writes, then looks up 

to see 

what the purple blossoms

say about that.

**

those who love you make you special

**

10/1

Some things

ought not be let

to go on—an empty bowl,

the executioner’s noose,

to name two.

**

10/2

a life

a world

alive

in the

palm of

uni-

versal

flowing

moment-

um

**

Waiting for the Mexican Bamboo

to unfold, watching ripening stalks

wave their wish 

in air 

empty of all 

but waiting.

**

Asked which group he’s with, he says, 

“the world—a table for one will do.”

**

10/3

Readings on Basho

I’m not so certain 

what simplicity means,

but would say to you to find 

what’s essential for you. Then,

stay the course.

**

10/4

Of this week’s griefs—name

a place, recite a name, 

as I do mine…

“Let love and gentleness 

shine in the wake….”

**

10/6

Up before the sun,

street lamps, moon and Orion 

all look down.

**

I remember a morning

that seemed a lot like this one,

without the memories though.

**

We camp on Mt. Diablo

under sun 

that weights the tops of tarps 

strung between the trees 

where gnats gather 

to tell stories.

**

10/7

The sun drops quickly this evening,

lifting silver through rippled waves of clouds

of charcoal hues 

that mantle the ridge in shadows

that call the air to chill, till night 

arrives for real.

Robert Lax wrote mainly

for himself, to understand better

himself in the world.

Flat. Ordinary. Commonplace. 

The exchange of energies most common, 

most overlooked. And yet  

no less than the foundation

of communal networks 

of sustenance 

that prompt every expression 

ever—the roots of praise,

home-place to worship.

**

10/8

Lasts

Well, the painters start today, early,

on the old family place in the city. Last time 

for us, we tell the kids, no more 

paint jobs on our watch.

**

Ten minutes on a Thursday

The older man walks slow, soft

rounded belly. The younger one drops 

a skateboard to the street, before his feet. 

People bustle, traffic ripples. Sun warms 

the interior of the car, and MacDonald’s 

flies three flags. Parking meters 

kick in at 9.

**

As I deeply reflect,

it was Sensei, it was,

who opened a door so wide 

I’ve been inside ever since, 

even when lost. 

So it’s always been OK,

every return quite natural.

**

10/9

Looking up without

my glasses, the moon turned out

in double crescents.

  

August into September--ordinary intimacies

August into September, poems

of ordinary intimacies…

pink blossoms 

bounce along the fence, 

ripple, finally find repose, 

simply still

**

August 6th

Night was long wakefulness,

somehow restful, fog fingers now in the ridge 

to the west, morning sky blueing, cloudless.

The Buddha taught, I think,

the world’s suffering, our own, 

cannot for most finally be resolved, 

but can be faced with equanimity,

for the joy, love and fellowship 

found there also—this, 

we can do.

**

August 10th

In my absence, my wife pruned the blossoms

where the hummingbirds come to hum. I’ve seen them

return to wonder, as so often we do, at the change,

at loss, seen them in those hovering moments 

before recovery, before reconnection to the reliable 

stream of living inquiry, reconnection to question, 

to what is this, where will it lead, to 

whatever comes next.

**

August 11th

Mist and fog lay heavy

on the streets here, 

certain signs of summer

finally arrived in full,

the obscured view 

affirmed as real, as true, as

no, we do not see clearly.

Filtered light tells us so.

**

8/13—Sam Hamil, on Galen Garwood:

         “ He has remained patient, an artist more interested

          in process than wealth, a seer alone…, alone 

        and taking notes.”

And so we return, we see, we watch, 

respond and again return—not so much discipline 

as extended natural curiosity, 

unending tentative touching, taking notes.

**

Before the sun, horizon. 

Then, pink clouds.

**

August 19

Garrulousness, yes, perhaps, at times. But I’m told 

real poems shed words like leaves too heavy

to stay till the breeze lets go. 

**

Unable to touch

a safe place, fatigue

has its way.

**

From uncertain shifts amidst burnished shadows,

light collects, 

decides: 

Day

**

August 20

How many the telling signs

dismissed,

before hearing 

tolling bells

calling our name 

too.

**

 8/22

We’re tired, real tired, so

except to reach for the news paper,

the gate will stay closed,

the phone shouldn’t bother,

nor emails either.

Old age has it own ways.

While often ignored, there are times,

without excuse, it simply will not

be refused—good friends 

can do like that.

**

That old monk hobo

holds out his bowl

without apology—how well

do you hold yours?

**

8/26

Outside, through

the open

window, dogs,

small dogs bark

in morning 

air, without

any thought

of how far

that endless

stretch of air

will carry

voice along.

What of us,

our voices,

do we know?

**

Looking over

at the altar

where the flower

sits in its vase,

remembering incense

not yet lit, intentions

not realized

but for this remembrance,

wondering if that’s enough.

**

When I finally realized

how much I’d relied

on my friend as a teacher,

it became clear 

I’d known all the while

it never occurred to her.

**

8/31

The way

I understand

is punctuated

by the fact that

not one of us is ever

lost forever.

**

Just as we find our way again,

we look first to our feet

before lifting our eyes 

to horizons now somehow new.

**

September 2

Time passing does not mean something missing.

I mean, when an old friend calls, just answer.

**

9/3

A moment, a day even,

turns more to its own

given clarity

when someone passing 

nods at even the smallest flutter

of meanings we hold close.

Therein, the gateways

to how much

we share.

**

The winds that’ve been

have left with the night, leaves,

small branches and litter

gathered in shaded corners, 

huddled conversations of time 

gone by so fast.

**

September 6

Lay facts on me if you must. I promise to consider,

but know I will bend to hold 

only a few,

but for the image, the impressed influence

carried there in themselves, integral to each,

to its own meaning.

Along side the moments at hand, the given.

That we are at all, and as we are, always 

drenched undeniably in light.