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KARMA
The birds offered metheir blessing this morningbefore lifting gracefullyfrom our wetlandinto another cloudless sky.They did so reluctantly,the blessing I mean,knowing what my specieswas capable of, whatwe had already doneto their ancestral habitats.They blessed me regardlessfor they understoodthe laws of karmaand would not wantto be forced in the next lifeto return as human beings.
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OUR SONGS
Each morning between fourand five AM the cat comesto the bedroom door, the gatewayto the one room she is deniedand for five or ten minutessings her songs which I,on the now rocky shore of sleep,imagine as a lullaby.She cannot expect me to respondbut each morning it isthe same, the songs differ,and when I finally ariseand…
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WHEN
When I finally found you,when I finally knelt at your grave,when I finally said hello,when I finally said goodbye,when I finally touched the groundin which you are buriedon the hillside across the riverfrom the city where you were born,a Jewish girl in West Virginianot long removed from Lithuania,when I said my farewell that morningknowing I…
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SAY WHAT?
In the heart of the night Iam wandering the back streetsand alleys of old Kyoto when Istumble across old Joshu staringplacidly at his acolyte monksgathered closely around him.“I ask you all again,” he says,“does a dog have Buddha Nature?”The monks consider this at length,each afraid to respond incorrectly.In this dream I am a cat out…
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MY SORT OF SISTER
I don’t remember her crib,but it was probably the one that Ihad only recently outgrown, butthe wood was polished pine,the rails topped with plasticthat I had dented with some cribtoy or other, the mattress soft,a mobile hanging off the end.She cried a lot at first, and mothersaid that was what babies did,but she said I…
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A DRY GARDEN LAUGHING
In the heart of Nara Parkthere is a five story pagoda.Deer appear, standing sentinelalong the lantern lined walk.Up the unseen hillthe Temple bell announcesthe full arrival of morningas the Golden Buddha awakens.Young children can seeall of this through eyesunlensed, and fetter free.They watch cloudsrelease a cascadeof tiny maple leaveswhich flow over sitting monks,a stream washing…
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TOCK TICK
He was an amateur horologist, so time was important to him. And time had left him with nothing but questions because language, poorly used was far less valuable to him, particularly when it touched on his greatest joy. What, he asked, did time do when it left the army and stopped marching? Why couldn’t he…
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SPINNERS
They were hoveringlike so many demented helicopterson the verge of the pondthis morning, as if fightingthe humidity that hangslike a velvet curtainover summer mornings.They look littlelike the dragonfliesof my childhood imaginationnor of the great beastswho should oncehave roamed here.We are nowtheir predatorsbut the morning sunno longer danceson the wingswe have given up.
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MORNING
The clocks have begrudginglyshifted again, the earlymorning lost in darknessbarely illuminated by a waning moon.The fronds of the Royal Palm’swhisper “we are here, waitfor us.” But they are mere shadowsbegging for dawn’s arrival.Finally the sun engulfs the starswatching over the horizon,the fronds say “look at me,I will give you an infinitepalette of green that will…
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NO ENTRY
. Each night we go off to bedand close the bedroom doorbarring the cat from entryinto our sanctuary, the onlyroom in the house she is notfree to roam at her will.We do this because we are allergic,because she is a cat and cannotbe trusted not to do somethingwe might regret in the morning,because she is…
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an old writer and his words 