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.

Thoughts on vocation…

March 2012

It’s not about poetics, nor practice,

but about exploration of the organic power

of language, the whole within which we participate

as matter of human fact, without which

we are not fully human.

Do we compose, or are we composed—

the rising response within the currents

of continuing contexts of human experience in its fullness

is Buddha’s teaching of nembutsu, remembrance

of original source, through the repeated resonances

of words, uncontrived, complete as conceived, the true

and real spontaneous creativity of unbounded breath

sounded in place and time,

the call-response of moment to moment listening.

Namuamidabutsu

**

Tree limbs akimbo,

splash and ride the waves and winds

of oceans of rain.

**

Ninety percent of

salmon in our streams are hatched

in farms. They’re leaving.

**

Married life made everything real for me,

as had nothing else, and the children, and continues

to hold true as age shapes the lift of horizons

no longer so distant.

Yet, and nonetheless, it’s been

Buddha’s teaching and the scratch of the pen

that have traced the silent forms of sustenance

of this most commonplace dance.

**

The young almond tree

that stands behind the Buddha

bursts with blossoms so suddenly

we cannot contain our laughter—trails

of not so quiet prayers—this year’s first fruit.

**

Men’s Work

The grandson and I work, an easy pace.

We lift and carry, and measure and cut,

tools banging and screeching.

We sweep and clean, admire and excuse,

reason and plan. You know, men doing men’s work

together. You know the kind—it sings

while they hum along.

**

Who our contemporaries are

is a matter of who

we’re exchanging words with.

**

Only the hummingbird can reach

the deep-throated bottom of the brilliant blossom

of its namesake sage.

**

Leap Year?

Is there a difference here, so near

the outer edge of breath’s urge, and at

earth’s center, and its work?

**

All morning, thinking

of doing

haiku

And what that might mean

in real time,

today

And thinking it not

different

from then—

Immediacy

unfolding

simply

Of itself, and we

as a part of it—

being

And all that comes with

that simple extended breath

**

Of old friends

and all that’s already said—

a voice on the phone.

**

It’s called an “in-law” unit,

but he’s not—intimacy

in the sound of a sum pump.

**

I find vanity

more resilient than body.

Wonder which will go first?

**

Thinking of Ryokan,

that river at the base of his mountain.

There were no buses then.

**

It’s not so much planned,

that my mornings are spent like this,

a bit longer each time, in the chair,

with pen to the page;

but it is the first urge.

**

At age 67

Many of the disciplines

I’d thought indispensable

have fallen into disuse.

**

The daughter’s friend

Her earliest recollection,

some thirty-five years now,

is of my anger—exposed.

**

Dimmed by the waxing moon,

Orion barely holds

to the night sky.

**

I demurred, again demurred.

And then, it went

to someone else.

**

After last night,

only puddles remain.

And the wind.

**

As always, he was well-meaning,

but those he spoke of as no longer present

in current consciousness, were my teachers.

Still very much here.

**

Sometimes morning light

so slowly bares the steadiness

of earth-held things

that even the tongue knows

to be still—then, a breeze,

rippled leaves, speaks enough

for everything.

**

Stay close children

The earth’s message is always the same,

it’s voice the quiet model

too often muffled by too careless footsteps.

**

On the carpet, among broken

colors of stained glass,

fallen thoughts.

**

A flash at my feet,

to the top of the fence,

and into the crook of the almond tree.

Safe, behind intervening blossoms,

we calm, and look at each other.

**

From behind the bamboo curtain,

moon’s light flickers

through passing clouds—silent entreaty

of an old friend. I signal back

with the pen.

Notes

Notes to myself #3

February 7, 2012

“Praxis” does not simply mean practice. It means activities, actions undertaken that are fulfilled in and of themselves—whole, organic, self-fulfilling—as opposed to actions undertaken in order to accomplish a goal that lies beyond the action itself.

Shinran calls nembutsu “Great Practice,” precisely because it is fulfilled in its very utterance--praxis. Suzuki translates Shinran’s “practice” as “living.”

Poems share this quality, and I believe I’ve come closer to understanding my life in nembutsu through a greater intimacy with poets and poems.

**

Read “poem,” think “nembutsu”:

The point of the poem is the poem itself, catching our attention in that way that turns our head, holds us, disarms, even for a moment, all other concerns. Our being arrested in the mystery of hearing more than the words spoken.

Language as tool eclipsed by words as experienced event. An opened opportunity for learning something new.

Poems can be found in the most ordinary exchanges between us, if we’re listening.

It’s not about another “use” of our words, but a different awareness of our natural engagement with words, a different awareness of our living as humans that opens opportunities for sustenance and growth.

Nembutsu and the poem are lived events, experiences that are true, real and whole in and

of themselves, not transactions for some other purpose.

Moments of awareness that evoke not anticipation for what is to come, but appreciation and gratitude for what is happening, what has occurred. A gifted taste that most often moves us to want to share.

**

And in this, I pause, as did the poet Kenneth Rexroth, “in my sixth decade,” and wonder at who I am and what I’ve learned, or not, who I’ve become in this tangled, unruly insistence toward nembutsu and poems, practitioners and poets—in the truth of their lives as heard in their words, through their dedication to this, I find my own. Home then, “sangha,” community. Intimate fellows of no little significance. Namuamidabutsu

Meditations

New threads…

First time, morning with

the new daughter and grandson,

rising together.

The lunch box is blue,

a sturdy cloth bag, hand grip

hung from thin fingers.

Rains blew cold throughout

the night. Muffins, juice and tea.

The furnace kicks in.

Like heart beats, these two.

When you’re close enough to hear,

you can feel the heat.

**

All this time…

The beard is white, the hair thin

and wisdom as untouchable as wind

dances where it will.

And amidst the swirl, words

arise to fall to the page, names to utter

in darkness.

Nonsense sounds of sutras, and of things,

meet in the slippery moment, settled

heart and mind,

centered,

the coalescing world

as it is.

The poem is not in

the book, Sam Hamill writes,

the poem is “in the self,”

is of the self become realized,

of the world

aware.

Not an object to be held, except

as on the breath,

the poem is a lived truth.

**

Remembering Bali

The old woman sits beside the passing traffic

selling cigarettes through windows

opened at the stop light.

She counts a wad of bills, weighs change

with knowing fingers,

in the iron heat of afternoon.

Each window gets a squinted glance,

every return

receives its due.

**

The trickle

doesn’t make itself,

it’s the push

of depths at the source

and the pull

of unknown destinations

unfolding,

the flow rejoined…

**

Not one thing the world presents is unworthy

of our attention, nor separate from

our awakening.

Basho suggests one last thing left to learn,

simply, “accept the kindnesses

of strangers.”

**

The poem is in the self.

Sam Hamill

The words just run at times,

slip to the page, looking

a lot like poems might.

But to come to hear Hamill,

recalls for me Ryokan,

who wrote, not “poems,” but

his mind, his heart-mind, his self

as it danced and ran with the world,

as does the poem.

**

Closing pages

The sun drops below the horizon here

well before five, shadows quit, light shifts

to grey cool, a quiet pause,

then headlong rush to winter’s long nights

that leave me numbed, wounded

for lack of light.

“Seasonal depression,” the doctors call it,

the body-mind complex struggles

with too little light—unacceptable,

it responds with lingering sluggishness,

calling over and again for more rest, until

I remember, and speak its name.

Like this evening, the barest show of pink

above the darkening ridge.

Street lights sparkle to life in the hills,

dark’s resting place before rising

to the waiting sky, stars

marking the slow drift of the heavens.

The human mind reaches for the unseeable

by way of words, imagination

moving into waiting meaning—articulation

revealing what cannot be known,

lips saying,

in order to learn what one wants

to say.