When you are cleaning,
what becomes of the dirt?
When you are bathing,
what becomes of the water?
When you exhale,
what becomes of the breath?
When the moon disappears
is the moon truly gone?
When you ask your teacher,
what becomes of the question?
If you sit quietly on the mat
and do not think of this,
what becomes of you?
A reflection on Case 21 of the Book of Equanimity ( 従容錄, Shōyōroku)
Here we measure seasons
by small changes in temperature
and for one, heavy rainfall.
We are the calendar reliant,
otherwise left to look at the moon
and count to ascertain roughly
what month it might be, but
we now live in a solar calendar
world so our lunar efforts
are necessarily doomed to failure.
And holidays are different here,
Christmas has no snow,
so we decorate our palms
and perhaps have inflatable
snowmen or reindeer, and hang
icicles from our gutters as
a reminder of what winter
is for so many other than us.
I should pause for a moment
and mourn the plump orbs
vinaceous in the morning sun,
torn free, placed in baskets
and carried off to be crushed.
But the cabernet beckons,
its first sip telling the tale
of the California summer,
the oak having long forgotten
the tree from which it was cut,
and I watch as the sun
reluctantly retreats,
a flaming farewell, the promise
of a return, the moon casting
its purple glare on the wine glass.
First appeared in Flora Fiction, Vol. 3, Issue 4, Winter 2022
https://florafiction.com/literary-magazine/volume-4/
It is that moment when the moon
is a glaring crescent,
slowly engulfed by
the impending night—
when the few clouds give out
their fading glow
in the jaundiced light
of the sodium arc street lamp.
It nestles the curb—at first a small bird—
when touched, a twisted piece of root.
I want to walk into the weed-strewn
aging cemetery, stand in the shadow
of the expressway, peel
the uncut grass from around her headstone.
I remember
her arthritic hands clutching mine,
in her dark, morgueish apartment, smelling
of vinyl camphor borsht.
I saw her last in a hospital bed
where they catalog and store
those awaiting death, stared
at the well-tubed skeleton
barely indenting starched white sheets.
She smiled wanly and whispershouted
my name—I held my ground
unable to cross the river of years
unwilling to touch
her outstretched hand. She had
no face then, no face now, only
an even fainter smell of age
of camphor of lilac of must.
Next to the polished headstone
lies a small, twisted root.
I wish it were a bird
I could place gently
on the lowest branch of the old maple
that oversees her slow departure.
First published in Rattle #23, Spring 2005
She is so often present
as the sun makes its
daily retreat, we
imagine she is
mysterious as
she hides, or
does she take
refuge in the shadows.?
Only a few
have truly seen her
and they speak only
of her luminescent
alter ego.
Apple Snail shell
bleached by the sun, empty
happy Snail Kite
Great Egret sitting still
waiting, simply waiting
then flying off
Red-shouldered hawk
staring into the distance
endless patience
Pig frog croaking
but the moon will not answer
we fall asleep
Tonight’s moon will look
similar to last nights, or so
we assume since the clouds
denied us that view again.
It will be fuller, more plump
less an empty cup, now one
almost full, spilling its light
into the all too dark sky.
If she is hidden again, we
will turn to our imagination,
for the moon is a creature
of habit, having learned from us.
She appeared without notice,
not there, then there, she
half angel, half siren, half mad.
She appeared like Casseopaiea’s
faint shadow taking form,
stepping out of the sudden fog.
She was nymphlike, sylphan,
demanding attention, craving
the eyes of all who passed.
No one spoke to her, whether
out of fear or disinterest and she
grew angry, larger still, until
the full moon was clouded over,
Casseopeia returned to her throne,
and the ethereal one was gone.
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
There is nothing like, no
words to adequately describe,
that moment when a cloud-
hazed sun lingers wishfully
just above the horizon, grasping
the sky with brilliant talons
of light, fearing becoming
lost in a darkness that will,
on this night of the new moon,
engulf us all in its inky shroud.
We know, or pray, the sun
will return in hours, just
as the sun knows its work
is never done so long as it
has light to give, hoping
that final collapse is eons away.
As it finally settles beyond
sight, we smile, retreat
to the table and consume
our dinner and wine, our
daily companion forgotten
until its dawning return.
an old writer and his words 