The cat stares down from her new perch atop the living room bookcase. She watches us move about, wondering where she might be. She can tell we are getting increasingly frantic in our search as she is new here, and we are adapting to each other still. We look behind everywhere she might hide, but she is gone. She can tell we are getting ever more nervous. She lets out a whistle, drawing our attention, and seeing us see her, she nods, saying Here I am, foolish ones.
My adoptive
grandfather
could take bits
of cloth,
a needle, thread
and with magicly
gnarled fingers
create a garment
fit for royalty,
to be worn
by the old woman
living
in the walkup
down the street.
I take words
bits of ideas
and hope,
and with
manicured fingers
create what
I can only hope
passes for poetry
to be ignored
by those
living nearby
in my suburb.
If you ask how
can one find the way
I will take you
into the garden
to look at the roses.
Each rose is
of a different size
and color, but which
is of the right size
and which the right shade?
A reflection on Case 71 of the Shobogenzo (Dogen’s True Dharma Eye)
Someone
once suggested
that if you build
a ten foot wall
someone will bring
an eleven foot ladder.
I have always
wanted to take
to the sky freely
and not in some
metal sarcophagus,
to be a bird
without limitations
but all I have
is an eight
foot ladder
and I am
still afraid
of heights.
S: What are you doing, for heaven sake?
H: Isn’t it obvious, I’m searching
for Nirvana, for enlightenment.
S: You silly fool, it’s right behind you!
H: (turning suddenly) It is not,
I would certainly see it.
S: You might think so, but
it is still right behind you!
H: But why, tell me, can’t I see it?
S: Because you’re looking for it
always peering outward,
but if you look inward
behind your eyes, you
won’t be able to miss it.
They pause
in their foraging in the lawn
to peer up at us,
strange looking interlopers,
but they are used
to us by now
and return
to the task at hand.
We no longer
find them strange
though we never quite
get used to the curved
salmon colored beaks,
and we do wonder
why the ancient
Egyptians held
them sacred.
It seems that they
have never forgiven
their Egyptian ancestors
from affixing
their head
to a man, god
or no god, he
couldn’t find
a grub if his life
depended on it.
They should have had
an altar, even Abraham
had one when he was ready
to execute Isaac, and the ram
interceded, to his ultimate peril.
They should have had
a funeral, that is just common
sense and decency, but they
wanted no such thing, just
be done with it, bury it away.
I still mourn the death
of science for I know that it
operates without spite, without
anger, with simplicity, making
our world ever more livable.
Perhaps there will be
a resurrection, it has happened
before, although at times
it does seem that it would
take a rather large miracle now.
First published in Pages Penned in Pandemic, 2021
It was easier
having no history
of my own, borrowed
histories are easily discarded.
After a while, you
begin to think of the adopted
history as your own,
and no one doubts you.
I have a history now
countries woven into
my DNA, always present
but never before seen.
It is mine, I passed it
along to my sons, and
although it grows weaker
it is a burden they cannot avoid
and one day, perhaps,
they will stop and consider
from where they came, and not
have to invent the answer.
I imagine I am the creator
I imagine I am the created
and I am the creator
and I am the created
I am both, I am neither.
I exist because I think I exist
so I have created myself,
just as you exist to me because
I think you exist, I am creator.
I say I can touch you so you
must exist, but I touch with my mind
so I cannot prove your existence
only the thought of your existence.
When I die, I will no longer exist,
and you will no longer exist
as far as my you is concerned
and that is the only you I can know.
A thousand steps,
one hundred thousand more
along the path
and the goal
seems ever farther away.
Stop
and rest
in perfect stillness.
You are there,
it has walked with you.
A reflection on Case 86 of the Shobogenzo (Dogen’s True Dharma Eye)
an old writer and his words 