At least once again this morning
some talking head commentator
told me that it goes without saying
and then said whatever it was
that went without saying
for ten minutes, twice repeating
the thing that went without saying.
I trust he will become aware
that he and his ideas will,
henceforth, go without seeing
by me and hopefully others.
But I guess that last comment
would go without saying.
Mother made a point of reminding
me to polish my shoes, she said
untidy shoes are the mark
of a poor man, one to be avoided.
I noticed she never wore shoes
that needed polish, never had wax
and brush in hand, and when her shoes
showed wear they were replaced.
I learned early not to talk back
to her, the penalty too stiff so I
never asked why any reasonable
person would be staring at my shoes.
In your endless search
for enlightenment,
the best course, the only course
is to stop looking.
It may strike you,
unexpected or it may
arise without your seeing
as you continue your practice.
You say there are many Buddhas
and you are correct, but I say
there is but one Buddha and I
am also correct, and you are
that one Buddha and I am
that one Buddha as well.
A reflection on case 14 of the Book of Equanimity (SHôYôROKU 従容錄)
A poet suggested that sin
was created by the Christians,
wrong, of course, but perhaps
just being politically correct
in not naming the Jews as
its creator, or at least
giving it a name and rulebook.
And on the point of accuracy
the poet might have noted
that the Jews created
the Christians, for Jesus
was one of them, a reformer
before Judaism would allow
anything beyond orthodoxy.
All of which is a long way
of explaining why I am
now a practicing Buddhist.
He loved the simple irony of it all. His vision was failing in one eye, likely might in the other, from macular degeneration. There was a hole in his vision thanks to his macula and geographic atrophy. And being a man of words he knew the best way to describe that spot, that hole, was to say his vision was maculate. It was just the most immaculate description he could imagine.
They took up shovels,
pickaxes, bare fingers
to pry up the seedlings,
the saplings just taking
root and the seeds
just planted still watered
by the sweat and tears
of those who lovingly
tilled the brittle soil.
They offered nothing
in return, barren ground
where only anger grew,
fertilized by fear, by
by greed, by blindness.
Will we sit by and watch
as promises wither under
an ever stronger, more
glaring sun, as hopes are
blown away by arid winds,
or will we again return
to the soil, start over,
our faith now perennial.
The violinists’ laughter and tears
are flung from her flying bow,
drip from his elbow,
and wash over the stilled audience –
we can taste the sea
as we threaten to capsize.
The viola is the older brother
now steadying, now caught
in the wave, riding
its dizzying course,
dragging us in its wake.
The cello is a torso, the cellist
a surgeon, her hands
plucking small miracles
from stretched gut,
shouting for, then at,
the still stunned gods.
Somewhere, Brahms
must be smiling.
First Published in The Right to Depart, Plain View Press, 2008.
The morning sky
maculate with tiny clouds
scattered about the endless blue,
denied the promised rain.
The wind grew angry
having nothing to propel
through the azure emptiness
and rifled the trees seeking music.
There is nothing to know
on such mornings, no language
needed or permitted, there is only
the sky awaiting the sun’s arrival.
We are invited to watch,
asked to gaze deeply into the void
for great beauty lies within
just beyond the pale of vision.
It is time they said, but they never said what it was time for, although they seem to know. It wasn’t like he was going anywhere, confined to this chair, a quadriplegic. He was the chair really as he had no way of moving it. He had no way of moving anything except by putting it in his mouth. So why, he wondered, did they tell him it was time. It was gratuitous at best and he had a watch strapped to his chair so he knew what time it was. But time meant nothing to him. When you are a prisoner as he was in his body time was merely your sentence and in his case it was likely life without parole
When your teacher
hands you the dharma
what do you find in your hands?
What will you do
with the dharma you are given,
where will you keep it,
or will you give it away
in silence, and in such
giving have it with you
at all times and places.
A reflection on Case 13 of the Book of Equanimity (従容錄, Shōyōroku)
an old writer and his words 