I summited a peak where I found myself
tired fragile lost
knew I had gone too far
before starting back down
slow trail switchbacks stones stumbling
heartened by air sweetened verdure
mossy fragrant growth 
finally to reach the valley floor
tall tree shade clear refreshing stream.

There will be other hills to climb
not so steep better views
I'll set out for them
after I've bathed in cool water
sat on a rock awhile
scribbled a bit found some lines
slept peacefully and long
until wakened by full moon's light
telling me it is time to be on my way.

Master Dogen's words
are enough for a lifetime:

     "To learn Buddhism is to learn ourselves
       to learn ourselves is to forget ourselves
       to forget ourselves is to be experienced 
       by millions of things and phenomena"*

Learning self is almost intelligible
forgetting self is beyond intelligible
being EXPERIENCED BY 
millions of things and phenomena
is what I'm after!

Just now I put out a tiny red bowl
water to the brim
dollop of honey - sugar water.
I am after hummingbirds
intelligent curious creatures
who, I read, remember human faces
or, in other words,
experience me.

I've begun my practice -
being experienced by myriad phenomena.
Practice and diligence is required
patience a requisite.

I begin with small phenomena
just one hummingbird, then
work my way up the phenomenal ladder.
With patient diligence
without distractions (which are many)
I'll experience that I am being experienced 
by the maple tree in front of me.
Eventually, given many kalpas,
as I've been assured I already have,
I'll experience that I am being experienced 
by Tahoma itself in all its glorious majesty!
What a day that will be!
Enough of words.
The phenomenal world is waiting.
_______________________________

*Eihei Dogen, Genjo Koan translation, Gudo Wafu Nishijima, “Understanding the Shobogenzo”, © Windbell Publications 1992 (www.thezensite.com)

In writings of the ancients 
clouds mean many things -
wandering monks searching
delusions coming and going
misty confusion or doubt

wandering delusion confusion doubt
yes these and more
I am at home with clouds
they've been with me all along
without them where would I be?

I did not imagine
beginning time away
changes waiting
long patient line

I needed time before
taking my place
resuming my role 
as if nothing had changed

Master Dogen's words 
sound as bell day after day:
"...to study the Buddha Way
is to study the self ..."

cool summer's eve
sailing cloudy skies
warm light comes
autumn leaves 

silence without words
these drought days
better than forced thought
writing not of my heart

looking into my heart
I find I am tired
of ideas not energy
how to live how to be

fine summer night
sight of moon sitting quiet 
young crow squawks
this is well and enough.

There are no cultures or times
when summer's solstice had no meaning
no celebrations or picnics into the dark.
Poets and astronomers alike
positioned themselves on rocks open to the skies
to view the moment of mystical change
when our plenetary movement in the heavens
for the briefest of instants, like a child,
paused and wondered,
shall I go forward or shall I go back?

I presume, only hours now before the event,
that we will go back, the sun as far past 
the big pine branches as it will go this year,
still...
I like to imagine that our globe in it's spin
wishes, this year I swear it, I will not go back!

No, I suppose not.
Despite consequences for species
of our lovely lost little planet
it is strangely hopeful for me to imagine
that our green and blue globe
had a fanciful mind to travel the stars
as we might wish for ourselves
in our wildest wandering dreams.

My inner world is the only world I know
and that not very well.
I am not aware how others see me.
Thinking myself an intuitive
introspective introverted sort
I wonder whether I know who I am at all 
much less what others think of me?
And don't say it doesn't matter what others think
it does, if others can clearly see
what I've been unable to see in myself.
Of that I have plenty of evidence!

I put off the question for years
having one with me who cared
leaving me free to putter around the house
tinker in the garage take care of the yard
anything but take a long serious look inside.

She cared for me and that was well.
Now she has gone taking her love with her
while I abandoned house garage and yard.
I am left with my thoughts and memories
trying to make sense of it all
finding and putting back the pieces
of this Humpty Dumpty who took a great fall.

I thought I was doing well
until my inner self grabbed me by the scruff
made me start paying attention.
I am trying now having halted my own crazy
leaving me with time silence and solitude.
Not wanting these in such abundance
I've got them or they've got me
just where they want me - paying attention
at last...

I cannot rely on Zen to give me the answers
though I been living that road. 
Not even my old Chinese hermit poets
do me much good.
Trying to lean on those old coots
they just step back saying
Man, you need to do the hard work
we can't do it for you.
Bums!

Here I am looking up at the wall
pieces scattered hither and yon.
This is my work, my unfinished masterpiece,
having nothing to do with words ideas or plans
only taping and gluing pieces back together
trusting that there is something outside of me
that will know how to add the finishing touches.

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.