Old now, youngish old perhaps, but...
in retreat my age advances.
Not wishing to let it take me unawares
I sit with it in meditation
yet no amount of stillness
can prepare me for the unknown.

Mountain hermits 
having left cities towns farms
of the Yangtze and Yellow river plains
wrote sadness for those living 
in the "dust of the world"
whether they understood 
who they were where they were going?
Sadness more than judgment
those for whom poverty
was as much mind as body -
sorrow to trudge along
past being able to choose
other than one's lot.

The ancients I read chose lives away
leaving monastic forms and rituals
abandoning communal life
to sit quiet live simply
with others, like them, who stepped away.

It is presumption to think 
I have anything to do with these
our worlds could not be different
yet...
my muse may come from distant lands and times
as she may come from around the next corner.
She comes when and where she comes 
when she does, insistent and clear,
I try to follow where she leads. 

Sitting in long silence
finding nothing to do
looking out the window
trance-like eyes not seeing.
I lose the words
nothing speaks to me
my heart is silent.

I've not come to the end
mourning Carol's death
memories remain
her face clear in my mind.

This is no exercise 
with beginning or ending.
I must decide how to go on
left with the difficult part 
no one to talk to of all the things
all the ten-thousand things
spoken between husband and wife.
I sit with these on my own.

Solitude days
are mine to have and hold
not warm and soft
do not hold my hand.
Perhaps they listen -
needed stillness and quiet -
hearing silent whispered things
I am unable to fashion into words.

I hear music playing 
cars going by
not the music I knew
not the times I knew
summer in the city.

I hear birdsong
see the big mountain out
volcanic glory and grandeur
Tahoma - mother of waters -
she hasn't changed 
has stood her ground
no matter the music
no matter the town.

In a thousand years 
I and the music long gone
she will stand
peerless over the valleys 
above her spawned rivers
challenging the sky 
questioning the seas
or she will give birth
rivers of fire furious wind.
Soon soft spring breezes
warm summer skies will return.

my authentic self
I don't know that guy
he's sitting right here
tap tap tapping
after loss being alone
too many moves
too much time
finally at rest
restless 
peeling away layers
of not me
I thought were
no. try again.
Ok. 

wood creaks in this old complex
early morning skittering on the roof
rats or crows I don't know
I've finished weekly laundry
wondering what to do next
sitting quiet for long periods
isn't easy to do 
I pick up poems
Li Po, Robert Sund, ShiWu
stillness hovers
making me close my eyes
gathering heat outside
I could clean something
straighten or organize
that done it's only eleven o'clock
promising a long day 
temptation to do something
anything as long as it kills time
"...as if you could kill time without injuring eternity"
says master Thoreau.
It's almost lunchtime.

warm summer days in Seattle
it seems calm out there
sunbathers bikers walkers dogs.
In an affluent neighborhood 
looks deceive.

The public arena
lost me following my wife's death
I wish to ignore it still
yet my excuse wears thin.

It is my world to love and hold
hard to admit this
having stepped away so long
I will try once more
look within to my heart of compassion
as much for those who march
as for those in high chairs
I cannot love one despise the other
no matter my personal beliefs
I am no one's judge or jury.

Hate is no option.
to walk the Buddha way
is to walk the way of peace
to walk the way of the Christ
is no different
the way of peace 
judging no one
is the only way.

Let it be.

finding who I am not
more than who I am
peeling away confused layers

small town Michigan
nervous skinny kid
four-eyed
didn't do well in school
not good at sport
girls a mystery
worked from ten years old
baby of four siblings

these things matter
those just the tip!

you can take the kid
out of Michigan
you can't take Michigan
out of the kid.

I'm a kid from Michigan
I'll never not be 
though I've tried
I'll always be that
no matter what else

it is good to accept
who I am
where I came from
Don and Senia's son
fourth of four
four-eyed doesn't matter.

The study of self
requires a form of introspection
reserved for the details of one's life
be they matters small or great.

Getting a haircut for instance,
a small matter regularly completed
by men and women the world over.
Why give such a matter a second thought?

As with most every interesting question
it depends on whose hair is to be cut
in this instance, my own,
at present very long.

It has been most of two years
to bring my particular mop into existence.
I value it as did master Samson
before the lovely Delilah shorn him of it.

In my case it will be the damsel Rebekah
who will shear my shaggy growth
in the morning and of my choice.
Samson had no such choice, poor guy!

I have what I believe good reason
for my well considered decision.
It pertains to a question Master Dogen would approve:
Who am I trying to impress keeping my splendid locks?

It is a question I ask myself of matters great and small
during my days of self study
a study master Dogen advised his followers
should they wish to study the Buddha way.

Who am I trying to impress?
I have applied this interrogatory 
to any number of aspects of my life
finding it apt to ferret out answers.

Who, I asked myself, am I trying to impress
in keeping and with difficulty maintaining
these hard won strands that I find 
over all my floor and every fiber of my clothing?

The answer is that I've deluded myself 
believing that someone, no matter who,
is very much impressed by my tresses.
Therefore have I kept the tedious growth.

Answering in the affirmative, 
that anyone at all would be impressed,
is never the correct answer.
That anyone would be impressed is vanity!

The task set by Master Dogen is to study self
not study others and their thoughts
about how I dress act feel think or whether
I ought go about with a shaggy mop or a monk's tonsure.
 
There are no matters insignificant
when it comes to the study of self.
To study any matter pertaining to who I am
is to study the Buddha way.

so many years with someone to talk to
didn't have to make plans a week or two away
with someone who wasn't her
she was with me to talk of our days
even when there wasn't anything new to say
same thing all over again was alright
comforting in it's easy back and forth
keep me from going off on schemes

I didn't know how much I needed her
just to be there in the morning after work
I love my friends but often
they are gone after their own lives
and I can't blame them
keeps them from having to listen to me

I'm one who needs to talk things over
writing isn't enough not near enough
I can't write the way of chatting
how dull that would be to any reader even myself.
I don't like this being without someone
I'm trying to see through this time
but zen isn't any sort of answer
demanding mind or no mind or emptiness
sometimes I want to say (or write)
screw all that!
I'll try to remember to say that to my friends
who've thought I've gone all zen berserk!

Maybe I need to say or write it more than I have -
I miss her!
I don't just miss any someone but her
she who knew me from the years we were together
I can't say we were always the best couple
but I tried my best to love and care for her
and I won't say my best was good enough
not for her but I tried.
We saw each other at our best and worst
but isn't that the way of married life?
I'm sure there are perfectly loving couples out there
but we were not that couple 
we were together in many very good times with family and friends
and in a very few not so great times
but we were together for thirty-one years
these days that is saying something.

I miss you, dear!

"Who can step back doesn't worry
we blossom and fade like flowers
we gather and part like clouds"
Stonehouse (Shi-wu)*

I've stepped back
my mind needing stillness 
rarely stilled or quiet
beginning to be so

we blossom and fade like flowers
all who've been in my life
days together as blooms
many faded beyond memory

we gather and part like clouds
drifting away as together we came
dear ones dear loved 
faces lost in the intervening mist

time is a gathering place
where i may invite them all to return
sit with me in my room
help me to find my true self

*The Mountain Poems of Stonehouse, translation and commentary by Red Pine, poem #31, p.37, Copper Canyon Press, 2014.