Running on empty

 

The sun that sets behind the ridge

lends silver light to gathered clouds  

and fogs that rush the valley tops.

And at the tip of the tallest magnolia bush

in the deepest corner of the yard,

a single blossom open

calls me to remember how lucky we are  

to have found our way 

so very long ago.

**

Purplish hues this morning

above the hills 

filter last night’s talk with our eldest,  

lingerings 

of weighing with us offers of work 

far to the south.

Offering all the light we can muster,

we hold the greying inside.

**

Oh, I could number this day, as with others,

on some calendar drawn of boxes and lines,

could etch some words thereunder to secure it 

tight, and yet, over the days and years that follow, 

remember precisely some dateless something else

well outside any conceivable line, even these.

**

Tangled stalks quiver, 

distant hills drink—after-rain 

chill unchecked by the sun.

**

If I’ve learned anything 

within the universe as it works, 

is every occurrence, every act and gesture

happening, is itself rife with energies of communion, 

a corrective commons of unending origins 

which carries every me of the greater us.

**

Exciting, the prospect

of again sharing the way 

of haiku,

wondering what all 

will be learned 

this time.

**

Quietly

persistent

possibilities

extending

there engaged

just because—

the poem.

**

Is there

some kind

of resolved

step certain,

taken 

complete,

or just more

of the same

open

ended

wonder 

and joy?

**

—Owl Canyon Haiku 

Winter grass fallen

piles storied turnings mute 

with the weight of rain.

          *

Trees bare their bones

with such abandon, permission 

to gaze is a given.

          *

Winter’s architecture 

reveals nothing supporting 

everything that falls.

          *

Wordless waiting—every place saved.

**

Through the blinds, moon shines.

Through air heaved wet with clouds,

moon, at the window.

**

In the quiet-spread presence

of sun-made morning 

in the east, the barest hint of blue 

blushed pink 

and a staccato stitch of grey-black 

cloud-stuff, north to south.

High to our west, along with night’s work,

moon lets go its fullness. 

And here in the yard, almond buds 

begin to round. 

**

Eight dark hours later, 

light opens sky so clear, 

rain-words drift away.

**

They will, in their time, 

trace this clutter called mine, draw

fingered skin right here.

**

—For Cid Corman

From beneath 

the blankets

into the chill

of the house

and cold streets

and back through

and behind

the closed door

again

to warmth

so imperceptible

before.

**

Almond buds signal

seasons’ shifts with silent bursts,

five petal smiles.

**

The furry underside

of the rounded leaf lifts

to impede intruders.

**

Absent you, where am I

but where always I’ve been

within the whole of it all, 

always and still singing. 

Listen…I tell myself,

just listen.

**

Even the most fierce winter 

loosens open to light.

This pandemic too.

plain wood

Pushed away enough times  

and one might well step aside

before the next takes traction,

neither resisting nor not resisting,

printless tracks

abound.

**

Every occurrence, the fulsome minutia thereof,

rests in the cross-hatched hair’s-breadth moment

of eternity’s breaking face in time’s present place,

this alone enduring, this the flame fanned, the essence 

of spirit, the heart of what poem is about.

**

After multiple nights hoarding the light,

moon begins to show its other side, 

leaving more for the stars.

**

Strange to think it’s the invisible sap

that holds together the whole of a tree.

Or is it the sun and sky

doing that?

**

Thinking everything ought have use,

even our thinking, we squeeze ourselves

empty of joy.

**

The window in my room reflects the inside glow 

of floor lamps, lets the soft report of the light aside 

the neighbor’s door, just now turning down 

as darkness turns us to the coming day.

How many the books and scattered papers

along the shelves here, unfinished, half-read,

marginalia scratched and skimmed, pages turned,

forgotten closed—all, or most all of this undertaken 

with some thought of some wholeness 

some how missing, while all the while, which days 

of all those holding you were less than their fullness 

including you, the all of you and the all you do—

a petal’s quiver is never partial, never alone.

**

Unable to decide the date for certain,

too lazy to count back the days, I stretch out 

on the bed all day to watch everything around me 

do nothing more than what it does of its own…

including me, I’ve begun to see, me, wondering why

I’m lying here feeling out of sorts, unconnected,

is in fact the what of what I do this day, and with this,

seeing that, the ease already fallen about it all, 

catches this fool then settled right there in it all, 

of it all—

   “wandering come to rest, the world and I

    let each other go. Not a sole in sight,”

says T’ao Ch’ien,

   “….I send findings beyond all words:

   who could understand this bond we share?”

**

1/10

High in the south grey sky turning blue, 

moon signals its thinnest thread 

to those looking up 

and those who don’t, 

no decision, no discussion, 

just perennial doings 

simply done.

Confused echos criss-cross a continent

merely a blur from up there. 

**

1/12

Morning arrives dull, crimped, shade-drawn. 

But a deeper silence hovers, heavy as a shroud, 

that will not clear of itself.

Almost twenty years since the last, by others, 

from the outside. 

This time, ourselves, from inside—is this the time

we ask ourselves 

who we are?

**

Moist nights

clear days

warm air—

earth

flowers.

**

Kneeling in the dirt in the garden,

pulling weeds, the inner light

of a knowing smile

welcomes me back—dusts

from troublesome travels 

left at the open threshold.

It’s been so long now, nearly forgotten, the original name 

I’d taken as Buddha’s-follower (well before a more serious

one) was Gunmo, Japanese for weeds, or sprouts, the kind 

fermented for alcohol—one who’s drunk with an unruly and

persistent grip on this life, which may explain our relations 

in the garden: they don’t seem to mind that I pull them; and 

it bothers me not at all that I’ve got to do it over and again: 

it’s not battle between us, but continuing conversation 

about who we are, what we share, where we come from—

they’ve promised to watch over things when I’ve gone.

**

—plain wood

a walk in first light loosens body and mind

scattered breaths, untangled thoughts 

silently littering neighborhood sidewalks

there are ways to say Buddha’s name

that please linguistic sensibilities

but the seed is in breath’s performing 

and every word we meet and speak 

in this way 

is the way

**

It’s not raining. Mid-January, none in sight—the last rains 

a week or so back, only the flowers remember, still tasting 

morsels of moisture remained in the earth.

From the bowl on the altar, incense lifts too, tells 

of the nearness of air not noticed without it.

**

1/14

As day breaks

in morning winds,

two barks

from next-door,

then nothing

but the biting chill

defining its claim

before sun makes its mark

on the final day

before powers exchanged—

cloudless skies holding

the stillness

of our collective breaths.

***

“….Trust yourself to the mountainside. It will take you in.”

                              —T’ao Ch’ien

Clouds illumined

 

Of course, 

the flower seems to say

its song is of the sun, of course,

but its song, nonetheless.

**

Sensei once said, “your shinjin

is your poetry—keep writing.”

I didn’t understand for quite some time,

till now, even,  

he was pointing to one thing,

not two.

**

Something dear dangles

silent truth there just beyond the reach

of the tongue, strangely satisfying.

**

Having never been long on vision, 

never long on longing for this or that,

immediate accomplishments (like getting up)

have paved the way of deep satisfactions.

Being together forever

is done everyday,

together…

**

With nothing particular to do,

we can do anything, so let’s do that.

Leave the door a’jar, the world’s already in.

**

Without my glasses, I know the hummingbird

by only its quick-shift movements

among the blossoms, each one, each one,

scattered along the fence, clear intentions

bringing focus to mine. 

But it’s not the stops; if so, she would. It’s

the movement it’s about, the taste, the thought,

the word, the poem—all about the movement, one

beat among the others of the movements of the heart, 

not where it stops.

**

A word here or there, a group perhaps, 

pre-sent, present-caught, amidst the flow,  

tell us something that turns the head to listen, 

and even if not repeatable, we know.

**

Spoken aloud words 

resonate presence 

inner and outer landscapes

echo.

**

Come dark, sun-energized lights that string the lattice 

work every time without announcement, silent appearance 

as quiet a surprise as a smile pointed your way that you catch 

well after it’s begun, an intimate tinge, the addition of subtraction 

of self-consciousness, like lines of prose found holding the music 

of poems.

**

I pretend

to know myself,

but no such luck.

My name’s been called,

and over and again I’ve looked

in different directions, 

though my teachers assure me

its the hearing that counts, the rest

working itself out.

**

The sun explodes Christmas morning

in bursts of illumined clouds of salmon-pink 

and reaching streaks that seem to speak 

to no-one but me—not a thing a’stir but the weave 

of light, solitary leafs, 

the shifting grey from ocean to bay 

and singular drops of rain.

**

It’s words relating that happens 

on the page and on voice-opened air.

In the limitless ranges of listening,

signals abound—like moss does to north

and petals leaning to call the south,

people speak to who you are to them.

Revelations can occur; reflection too.

**

Obi Kaufmann, California naturalist, artist,

activist, and writer, once said that poetry is

“the ability to witness and interpret interrelated

moments of insight brought together by epiphany

and serendipity” (I almost forgot philosopher).

As for me, Jerry Bolick, an ordinary california buddhist 

bombu, somewhat uncomfortable with notions of ability, 

of interpretive skills, poetic or otherwise, clear resonance 

lies in those gifted moments of “epiphany and serendipity.” 

My part, to simply be there, and to follow.

That said, I continue to study and learn from Obi, 

a fine teacher indeed, and no matter how he sees it, 

a true friend on the way.

**

Coyote Brush is as common as dirt hereabouts,

dense bushed reaching branches extending

fully curled with small dull leaves 

into a delicate pirouette,

pursed at the tips like the kiss

of a tiny green rose 

which in winter gives rise to tight white lips 

of new seed 

that burst suddenly splayed tangles 

of hair thin surprise and promise 

spreading the hills like snow flakes.

**

—Back deck observatory 12/29

Orion steps out from the south,

but the full moon

ranging high in the sky

grabs his light before the telescope

can catch it: this winter night

is the moon’s—Orion demurs

and so do I.

**

As morning darkness asks light to return,

I ask out loud outside, what year follows

this one—nothing answers.

**

—12/31

A late morning in bed

watching the moon find its way

in the brightening day, 

the final horizon’s rising of so troubled a year,

even the neighborhood dogs 

wait in quiet.