The magic of jazz
is not what you think –
there is nothing random
even in the wildest, in
the acidest of solos.
Cacophony is randomness
and the key to jazz
is to see the
invisible logic,
read the mind,
be the mind
of the musician.
It is zen, but only
if you stop searching
and just be in its
moment.
It happens every day,
when I arise from the cushion
and look, I see myself there.
If you look, you say you see me as well.
It will happen one day
that when I arise from the cushion
and look I will not see myself.
If you look, you will say you see me,
and I will nod in agreement.
Each day when I see myself,
I know that it is I who I am seeing.
But each day I see an illusion,
masquerading as I, a delusion,
and I see you seeing me, a delusion.
Each day you see me, you see
a delusion, but a different delusion.
Consider how strange this is,
for on the day I do not see myself
I see no delusion, but you see me
and see a delusion, but I do not
see you, for there is no me to see you,
and just then I am free of delusion.
A reflection on Case 94 of the Blue Cliff Record (碧巌録, Hekiganroku)
It was a certain rhythm that he loved
he felt it in total silence, it faded
in the presence of sound, a doumbek
of the soul he would describe it.
He remembered how it was before
their one God rendered him and his kind
mere mythological creatures fit only
for poetry and dusty library shelves.
He would have his revenge some day,
would condemn their God to a corner
of the heavens, an eternity to reconsider
the rashness of his narcissism, but
in the meanwhile he would continue
to rest in the heart of this constellation
hoping to go unnoticed, happy just
to listen to the rhythm of the universe.
When I stood in Hemingway’s study
in Key West, I was certain that
the old Underwood portable probably had
at least one if not more
great novels in it, and I
would gladly be the one to unburden it.
Then I paused to wonder
wouldn’t Ernest have taken his
Underwood portable with him
to Ketchum, Idaho, and how could
Mary be sure none of his blood
was splattered on to it, and if so
the one in the study in Key West
was probably bought at an antique store
sold to them by some failed writer
who had given up on it, or on writing,
with no great literary works lying
in wait, just the mundane, and I
have long mastered that alone.
People wondered why I traveled
to a remote part of Wales
for a writing workshop
when there were a limitless supply
at home or in touristy places in the US.
I could tell them I was impressed
with the two teachers, I could say
I was to be in Lloyd George’s home.
I could say all of that, but in truth
although I didn’t know it when
I registered for the week living
in as close to a monastic cell
as I ever want to get, the real
reason was to have an afternoon
sitting on a window bench in the conservatory
looking out in the distance at the Irish sea
a house cat curled in my lap, my notebook
slowly filling as my pen ran dry.
This night
in cold moonlight
earth rises up
clouds float down
ghosts walk the margin.
Old ones sing
now shall be then
older ones still sing
then shall be once
to wolf and coyote.
In this season of north winds
sun’s heat barren
spirits rise up
dreams descend
man lies interspersed.
Women sing
we are bearers
men sing
we are sowers.
First appeared in Dipity, Vol. 3, April 2023
This afternoon the vulture couple
sit stoically on the limbs
of the long dead tree in the preserve.
The rain was torrential
as we watched from the dry
confines of our home, they
stood soaked to the feathers
with nowhere to hide, knowing
they couldn’t out fly or out climb
the purging clouds, so they set
soaking wet and stared at us.
And then I knew, just looking
at them, that while I felt sorry
for them perched in a downpour
they felt the same for us, we
unable to know the joy of flight.
We are lovers of novelty, we want
all that is new or clinging
to what we imagine are our roots.
It has long been this way,
you need only look at the map.
Hampshire, York, Jersey, and
for that matter Brunswick and Mexico.
We crave innovation, we always
want to be on the cutting edge, forgetting
that all too soon it will become
the bleeding edge, and we will curse
its failures, its shortcomings.
So ask yourself if those who live
in Hampshire, York, Jersey, and
Brunswick, Scotia, and Mexico
think they live in a place that is
no longer new, left behind in
an endless search for something
other than what we have right now.
If you ask
your teacher
to show you the Dharma
he will look
at you and remain
silent.
If you ask
nothing
of your teacher
he will
show you
the whole
of the Dharma.
A reflection on Case 33 of the Book of Equanimity (Shoyoroku 従容錄)
As I age, I more willingly accede
to the sirens call of sleep
for as night washes over me
pulling up its blanket of stars
she takes me on a voyage
to destinations she will
not disclose until our arrival.
The journey may be pleasant
or the seas of night can be
roiling, but her grip is firm.
But in her never certain world
age can slough off, fall away
until my body and its increasing
frailties and limitations slip away
and my youth is no longer
a memory, but on this night
or that, it is my new if transient reality.
But I dare not cling to it, for
the sun will intercede again
and drag me back to the body
I so willingly escape each night.
an old writer and his words 