kids

it's saturday night
the young of the world
sing their genuine songs
suddenly youth is something
i am not

youth is a moving picture
a television channel adults aren't supposed
to be watching
i'm a secret midnight viewer

the original temple poem

Moon Sitting

On this high froth-tipped mountain
the temple owns few lamps.
Sit facing the moon's glitter.
Out of season, heart of ice.

Hui Yung (4th-5th century)

difficult week

the temple owns few lamps

contemplating emptiness only delights and soothes me
under certain circumstances

overturned metal garbage pail
an inch of water rippling on top of it
in the wind after the rain

few dishes i use in my kitchen

a painting in white and black

images, images
pictures in my mind
the monkey's fairy tales

emptiness otherwise:
activities, friends, money, work, meaning
ugh! no thank you.
i want all ten thousand lamps in my temple
to light on command!

until true nature seeks the painful darkness

a beautiful night

swooping calling walking flitting
around me, around the bridge
around the makeshift bird feeder
in the green woods
seven different kinds of birds
a cardinal a redwing blackbird
two chickadees a starling
other birds in shades of purples blues blacks
ducks in pairs and groups
and squirrels, swinging to catch the feeder
moving in conscious patterns
beings everywhere!

the man with a spade on the path
by the stream
calls 'beautiful night, isn't it?'
who knows what he and his mother
are digging from the streambed?

at the end of the path
a long haired cat sits on a fallen tree
rising from a sea of yellow green
and tiny flowers
eyes open, watching me
eyes close, in sleep

this is the night i fall in love again
i was waiting for it
and now it is here
a country you stumble upon
once you stop traveling
for the sake of finding

handle with care

not afraid of being hurt again
but still being hurt
i choose not to kiss you today

the magnolia blossom you picked for me
is wilting
but in my mind's eye
hundreds of dancing blossoms
against a blue spring sky

an anxious week

every early morning
7:30 sunlight

the bed is shaking
it is my heartbeat
and my organs
my life in motion

far away
industry sighs and speaks

above and below
bodies move in space

life in motion

sound rises
while this body rises

the mind sleeps
and tosses in its dreaming
restlessly

drive all blames into one

early spring, early morning

a tossing warm night
a strange but familiar feeling in the throat
as pollen explores the spring
the cat is wild
under the influence of
open windows

wake and sleep
sleep and wake

7:30 am
it's very cold in the living room
the reddish sun coming up over the city
i come awake
reading the last words of the buddha:

All conditioned things are subject to decay. Strive with diligence.