Everything is new:
my mother’s crude husband,
this small Alaska town,
my unknown
fifth grade classmates—
including Larry Sefrovitch
who wants to fight.
A crowd circles us on the playground
as we flail fists.
Only after a teacher
separates us
do I cry.
I can’t stop.
Seward, Alaska, 1952
(No. 62 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
I’ve searched backcountry ridges,
studied tides along rainy shores,
consumed two sets of black cushions
sitting zazen.
Still, only glimpses
of Cold Mountain, unless
this is it—here,
on this spruce-edged beach
along a tannin creek,
with this dark woman
and her two kids.
Olympic Wilderness Coast, 2002
(No. 38 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
A drip collects
in a plastic tub
placed on a shelf
in my bathroom.
Its source is not rain,
but cold condensation.
I need to fix it.
This wears on me.
To be honest,
containers collect water
in many rooms of my house.
Although it requires
energy to empty them,
many of the leaks
may never be repaired.
(No. 101 in a series of replies to Han-shan’s Songs of [...]
Do one-breath zazen!
my Zen teacher would say
when I complained
I hadn’t time
to meditate regularly.
He would probably approve
my placement of his new book
on the back of my toilet.
Since my prostate enlarged,
I pee more than I used to, making
for frequent short visits with
my old teacher.
*Dokusan—personal interview with the roshi during formal Zen practice
(No. 56 in a series of [...]
My mother, a fifth grade teacher,
works as hostess one summer
at the Indian Grill. She urges me
to apply as a busboy.
The first day, she introduces me to
the owner, Mr. Wadsworth,
and his partner and chef, Mr. Graney.
Great folks, Mother says.
The head busboy, Louis, warns
me that Mr. Graney, like most chefs,
is a drunk—Wiseow, man,
watch out for him!
I [...]
One day Louis’ older brother
drops by the Indian Grill,
and we take a break from bussing dishes.
Carlos wears a wavy D.A.,
greets us with a scarred hand.
Louis tells me his brother
wanted to marry, needed a job.
No one would hire him
because of the tattoo
between his left thumb and forefinger.
So Carlos drove north of town,
up into Austin Bluffs, used [...]
Now that I know where
to look, the little removable
panel in the back porch floor
seems obvious. Lifting it
provides access to a master
water shutoff valve. No more need
to crawl through cobwebs
and dust. I feel the presence
of an agile mind, a hand
grasping my own, and I breathe
Thanks.
An elderly Asian man
finds a seat near me
on the Route 550 to Bellevue.
About every third breath,
he emits a deep Buhhhh
from low in his throat.
This eruption shivers me,
though less than I might
have expected. He is not
so much older than I.
By the time we cross
Lake Washington, I quietly
try on a sympathetic
Buhhhh, about every
third breath. It’s not
so bad [...]
Reflections on a subtitled movie seen
in Boulder, 1963
Defeated Japanese soldiers,
abandoned on a small Pacific Island,
argued over what to do,
how to find food. They fought,
killed, eventually ate
each other.
The last one
carried his ragged
childhood doll, like those laced
to kamikaze pilots. He stumbled
to a western bluff where a black
and white sunset oiled calm water.
Sitting on a broad [...]
A man sits at attention,
suspended in a rotating
crystal with no top or bottom.
Each facet of the crystal mediates
his thoughts and feelings
about himself, family, others.
He surveys the zeitgeist,
adjusts his attitudes,
offers a palette of caring
colors to relieve
the stress of others.
He believes this makes
the world a better
place.
Although the prospect
of death is worrisome,
his vague sense of Buddhism
and healthy constitution
allow [...]
