Lost at sea, clouds hover
At the horizon, further from me
Than the moon is from the sun,
Interstellar puffs holding in
A gift of life; cruel misers.
Lost at sea, clouds hover
Drifting dreams cross the sea
Reaching me in my hammock.
I listen to them and chuckle,
So that’s what I should want:
Crossed palms and a hammock.
Oh well, I’ll do with straight palms
Slippery these words we sing.
They slither and slide through slaloms of vowels.
Grasping one, I wonder aloud,
“Do these sounds come for the satisfied calm
of a sailor seeing land on the horizon?
Do they arise from the full belly
of our collective cache of joy?
Do they lie in wait to immortalize the sunset?”
I wonder and listen to her shuffling feet
as she hums sounds absent the meaning,
the pauses and glides glisten on her lips,
the momentary drawl leaning
over the chasm between beats.
I say, “ I love to listen to your sounds.”
She smiles and opens a window
Winter comes at night,
Through the haze of twilight,
When we’re the least aware,
All as the warm light makes room
In a cold swoon
Of the other world’s encore. Read the rest of this entry »
Time washes clean the past’s beachhead.
Out to sea goes its gathered forces,
leaving conches echoing the moment of chaos
and clams murmuring to themselves.
Focus on now, feel the past
and future drift into blurred edges.
Only now exists, feel the present
crowd the horizon and tower above the sand.
Every moment in and out.
Every thought gliding away,
till there is nothing but time
to accompany eternity, a tick and a tock.
Time passes as we listen to the clock,
chimed seconds outside our breath,
pin pick moments on the way out
remembered only as moments that were marked.
Till there is nothing in us but passing time,
till we’re just flashes in the cosmos,
till we’re just shadows on the universe’s complexion,
unseeing eyes blinking silently.
Or we can live for our own the future,
be in the imperfect and temporary frenzy of expectation,
live in the ecstatic and near sighted sanctity of hope,
fall asleep with the force of tomorrow pulling us forward.
Jim feared the dawn. He would stay up all night, walking through the streets, feeling the cool air touch him like a glove fitting a damp hand and hold him in a soft embrace. He came to the night and it covered him like a silent lover.
When the light hit, the grass in the park would be covered with ants and children chasing balls, birds hopping from branch to branch, words jarring the air into a quiver while tongues ran through the dance of Shiva. The world was on fire and he would have the blackout curtains drawn watching the clock’s hands move, ticking one moment to the next like quarks popping. Finally he would open his eyes and see the moonlight like a siren beckoning him to the empty streets.
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Dawn returns the sun to us,
letting Apollo stride through the sky,
letting birds sing and roses open.
It focuses our eyes into the distance
where purple lights up the clouds,
pulls our feet into meadows
where tall grasses sway in the wind.
It removes the haze from the valleys
and the dark film between us
and the glistening eyes across the field,
dropping into laps the realization
that everyone exists within and without us.
It brings out the blue in the sky
from the lingering nothingness,
showing clouds dance between
currents of air,
showing the world for a moment
as it was on day one.
It puts the stars to sleep.
Creased paper, the fine line between matte white and cherry wood, the smell of ink settling inches high, the moment I see a word I don’t know, my own handwriting turning a phrase I don’t recognize, the ringing in my ears between breaths, trees sprouting leaves, an arm underneath me that I can’t place, an old song slipping into the soul’s vinyl grooves, the door slowly opening and closing, dreamscapes and moonscapes, the sound of tires slipping, sound travelling in a vacuum goes faster, lapses in judgment after listening carefully, rain splashing up, going to sleep in the morning, memories I feel but don’t remember, counting the seconds until an egg is done.
“There are no Zen teachers.” I heard this quoted from a traditional story at a dharma talk at the Green Gulch Zen Meditation Center a few sundays ago.
The speaker heard this when he was young, and took it as meaning zen can’t be directly transmitted from the teacher to student in some sort of metaphysical transaction, everyone must discover zen for themselves. In his life story it led to him not seeking guidance from people who he acknowledged were masters, and later on feeling like a hypocrite when he himself became a teacher. In end though, he decided teachers did have a place in offering guidance, even if they lacked super powers. Read the rest of this entry »
The rare frost covers the ground like powdered sugar, tempting me to go outside and try some, lick it and love it, fold it between my cavities and tongue, let it smother what’s there now. I want to feel its icy pin pricks, the dimming forgetfulness the cold brings, the insistence that it always was and that it’ll never go back to a dry warmth. The chill will soothe my soul like a lid on a flaming pan smothering a dancing fire and gently return me to a balance from a boiling passion towards a flat sea of consciousness. The frost means all of this as I look back from the fogged window at you in bed, your eyes closed and breath steady. Read the rest of this entry »