Friday, April 30, 2010

Antaiji Haiku

A few haiku about my Antaiji experience:

Good fellow, next bench —
stretched out, hat pulled over head —
not snoring, not yet.

A late mountain snow.
Below, the green field patchwork
still holding it's own.

After a hot bath,
in raggityanne loaners,
she's a warm homeless.

Hands at quiet work
sorting a portion of rice
her thoughts are elsewhere.

Sitting quietly
a sudden downpour and gusts
shaking the hondo.

A homeless ghost
winds his shape through the forest.
I think of his face.
Rushing streams gouge out
new paths in the mountainside,
my paths lead to you.

Four visiting monks,
laughing, play with the children,
smoke, drink beer, eat cake.

Cleaning out the bugs
from ashes of ancestors —
A fine remembrance!

All the walls fallen
the small I that once was now
transparent as wind.

Early spring morning
monks rake the pine needles off
one hundred eight steps.

Continuous rain —
day spent cutting and glueing
shoji paper strips.

A bit like sitting
in snow this early morning
and no socks allowed.
Late in land of Oz
Thoughts cloud over a cold moon.
Winds stir old tea leaves.

Collecting wild eats —
Warabib and soft zenmai —
Your morning harvest.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

A Poem: Homage for a Friend

Dedicated to my three favorite poets on Twitter, those many faces on know who you are! (One of them may not consider himself a poet, but I have enjoyed his poetry and Haiku for their simple perspective and their perspective on Zen practice.) Gratitude for your friendship and assistance on my path to awakening. Namaste and Peace. May you be well and happy. _/|\_

This piece was originally written ~February 20th, 2010

Sit and observe a moment.
Let the air come in and circulate
Through those dusky places.
Just listen, for instance, to that lone field sparrow
Who forgetting all humility awakens out of itself
And sings a bit more loudly than the rest.
That song is a bit of something,
A song to take peace in, a harbinger, yes,
of spring
Which comes to us all, just like every season.

It's all too common to let those moments blur,
All that simple song turning into
Ambient noise to be brushed aside,
Along with the sounds of traffic,
Which themselves are a kind of peace
In the world continuing if you listen.
How strange it is that sounds and colours
Can be so equally intense, how every feature seems
To take on some monumental significance
When viewed from either side of love
― joy or sorrow.

It's still our winter now though,
And though the daylight extends its arms
Ever further into night, there's still time for us
To build that fire based on honesty and friendship.
Let's all gather round like the old birds that we are
― gathering blackberries.

Link to the Robert Hass poem "Meditation at Lagunitas" to which this poem refers.

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.

Ideas, language, even the phrase each other
doesn't make any sense.
~ Rumi

A Poem: Contemplation on a Word

Wherever it is that souls go
When our bodies have burned
Through their time alotted ―
Which is such a small fragment
Of eternity, that our small suffering
And pain should hardly matter
Relatively speaking, that ephemeral
They are ― I am already part
There and stand with you
Even during those moments
You forget your origins ―
So what, if my head
Is occasionally in the clouds.
If you ever stop to feel a presence
Beside you in those moments
When frustration, impatience,
Fear, greed, or anger overwhelm you
With conditions and circumstances,
Maybe that is me, or that part of me
That matters, but is not matter.
More likely its all of us though,
Standing together, the small story
That is humanity forgotten,
Merely echoes, in the solid love
That is Always.

A Poem: The Note of Now

It only takes one note,

this song of love I sing for you,

the note of now that resonates

each atom, the insides of which

spin in embrace of all that is,

and even all of you.

That note will reach you

across this timelessness

from wherever I sit —

my whole being this one note.