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)
Thousands of snow geese
shade early morning moon
under a cold sky.
Frozen levee grasses
soak my city shoes.
Overhead, a bare branch—
I glance up,
gaze into great horned
owl eyes.
Eventually,
we blink.
Port Susan Bay, Mouth of the Stillaguamish
(No. 39 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 [...]
