The hawk sits on a branch
looking up at the sky, knowing
this is perfection, lifting up
chasing a cloud, floating lazily.
The butterfly flits from plant
to plant, tasting the fruits
that nature has given her,
perfection in a single moment.
The cat sleeps on a rocker
the breeze rustling her coat,
until waking for dinner
which appears at her request.
We spend hours searching
for the keys to heaven, hoping
to insure what comes after this
life, but so often not living it.
The dawn cedes slowly
to the impinging sunlight
birds greet the new day
The great egret lifts
her wings embracing the cloud
the winter sun smiles
on the barren branch
the red-shouldered hawk awaits
her mate and the sun
sandhill cranes wander
along the shore of the lake
looking for nothing
the moon is a cup
waiting for night to fill it
venus sits empty
If as you walk
along the way
you come across
a small bird’s nest
fallen to the ground
its eggs intact,
you place it
back on the branch
without a thought.
If as you walk on
and come across
another small bird’s nest
fallen to the ground
its eggs intact
you place it
back on the branch
because it pleases you.
One right thought
and right action,
one wrong thought
and wrong action,
how can you
tell them apart?
A reflection on Case 15 of the Book of Equanimity SHôYôROKU 従容錄
His extended wings
momentarily block the sun
setting his feather tips ablaze.
His vermillion talons grasp
the waiting branch threatening
to break it from the tree
unless is bends to his will.
His curved beak arches
against an orange sky
holding tightly to
the retreating sun.
I can only watch
a majestic moment
and believe that somewhere
the must be a God
for nature alone could not
conceive of a creature
of such beauty, such passion.
The ghosts of my birth parents
blow into my dreams as
so many white sheets torn
from the clothesline
by gale winds, fly over me,
at once angels and vultures
carrying off memories
created from the clay
of surmise and wishful thinking.
I invite their visits, frail
branches to which to cling
in the storms of growing age,
beginnings tenuous anchors
to hold against time, knowing
the battle cannot be won,
but take joy in skirmishes
not to be diminished
by an ultimate failure I
have long come to accept.
In the heart of winter, then,
which seemed unending
I would stare out at the maples
barren branches piled
in ever tottering snow
and dream of palm trees
and a warm ocean breeze.
In heart of winter now,
such as it is, all I see
are endless palms and
many Southern Live Oaks,
their branches piled
under a heavy burden
of sagging Spanish Moss
and I dream of the simple
beauty of the maple leaf
shifting from its deep green
to its endless shades
of autumn beauty.
They say that you should
never approach or touch
a small bird, lest it he shunned,
perhaps to death, by your scent.
I’ve never been one to listen
to any “them” with whom I
cannot argue face to face,
and so seeing the small
bird on the ground curled
in its nest, staring up
at the branch from which
she parachuted groundward
I scoop her up in cupped
palms, a nested nest, and place
her gently back at her point
of departure, under the eye
of her mother higher up
in the tree, then walk back
as the mother returns
to the nest and child, and
with a sidelong glance
at me, appears to nod,
saying “this is why we dare
not listen to an unseen them.”
If a gentle flower
falls from its branch,
do you mourn its departure?
The fool attempts
to place it back in the tree,
the wise one waits
for another flower to appear.
Each is the same flower
but how will the fool
become wise?
A reflection on case 52 of the Iron Flute Koans
If a gentle flower
falls from its branch
do you mourn its departure.
The fool attempts
to place it back in the tree,
the wise one waits
for another flower to appear.
Each is the same flower
but how will the fool
become wise.
In the park
the ginkgoes, male
and female, separated
by the path, are putting
on their leaves.
Soon the squirrels,
eternal voyeurs,
will gather
on their branches
to watch them mating.
an old writer and his words 