soon new month
now new moon

no you

dhamma says

all processes are painful

2 by ko un

One white butterfly,

ghost of wisdom, is flying

over the foolish sea.

Decades of language—

despite misuse, abuse, violence—

is not your language you?

You must protect the nouns,

the hometown you used to look down on

from the hilltops that since have disappeared,

abolished souls,

the verbs, adverbs, sad adjectives

that vanished during the city night,

were abolished

to become a civilisation of the past,

and at length its skeleton. 

first time traveling without you

as a finality

as a death

as an end

what is left are

the shoes walking

the rolling of luggage the other departures and the arrival of 

a final me

alone

tired of voices

of too much

when a little is a lot

is

really

all one can take

that is 

a little

all one can see

that is

a

little

in time

closing and opening

what don’t you know

fills a heavy bota

a flotilla

of unanswered

and unawareness

airport bags and hair

the click of a can

reminds

this morning

a downy woodpecker’s beak

so small so loud

a little

a little

lousy how everything is filling up

people

lonely places

even the mind

hasn’t time for emptiness

children do

children do

“do you need me to come over there?”

to see the skaggerak and kattegat

to see seine

nets

and

voyages

the sea

is a dream

is a

seized dream

inside the mountain that is mind

that has no sea

but the me

inside

you can be along the danube

along the side of your mind where the water is

where the water sourced

source

source

dhamma says

self

do not neglect your welfare

Poe

dark man
white dog

night
light

message

leaves gathered
soil warmed
daylily
jonquil
tulip
bud swell
tell
robin


sing.

fix things?
grief cannot be fixed
it is not a broken condition

grief is a natural companion of love, and has its own acutely individual course, its own sensibility. There is no “right” course.

strength

tested

undone

re
re
re

gained

the critical moment

knowing the moment of discovery
condenses
khandas to essential suffering

asleep
stumble forward

aware
peace released

learn to know
grow

grief

the mind flu
of grief
thought leaves
aching lines
leaking
leaking
leaving


listening

passage


(expunged)

dream

the night universe

a billion
thoughts
souls
stars

repeated to the ends
of end

there you are
my love
far away
joining
what may dance
or drift

you
thoughts
souls
stars
you
dead and alive
a deft infinity


waving once
you turn
to go on
and on
and
on

“Why not go out on a limb? That's where the fruit is.” 

― Will Rogers

SONNET 56

Sweet love, renew thy force; be it not said  Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,  Which but to-day by feeding is allay'd,  To-morrow sharpen'd in his former might:  So, love, be thou; although to-day thou fill  Thy hungry eyes even till they wink with fullness, To-morrow see again, and do not kill  The spirit of love with a perpetual dullness. Let this sad interim like the ocean be  Which parts the shore, where two contracted new Come daily to the banks, that, when they see  Return of love, more blest may be the view;  Else call it winter, which being full of care  Makes summer's welcome thrice more wish'd, more rare.

posole

raven

morning

caw

cawcawcaw

caws

lost in northern New Mexico
the continental divide crossed twice

underneath lost
noise
in rooms
car
buildings

wind
voices

traffic
air

blood moon

soon

ides

of April

sun
singed

red

dream

dream says
love good byes
good human beings

go

ahead

bhikku says

invite voyages

see in this blind world

go

ahead

mind

too much
much

need


s  p  a  c  e

night sky

As Orion flees to Reykjavik,

midsky appear

Cassiopeia  Andromeda

surrounded by animals

animus mundi

progenitors

plantlet

Slip
cutting
into water.

Bhikku says
"restrained of hand,... restrained of foot..."

(still)

root

joy.

I don't want to talk about death or dying today.
I don't want to weep.
I don't want to worry  about students, teachers, or admin's numbers and goals.

I don't want to crease my mind with laundry like this.

I am sitting where, for three of four generations, people in this house have sat to look out and down the hill toward the river. The sun is cold in April. The air has widened. A fulvic aroma has seeped in, a black smell as swiftly encompassing as the melting river.

The geese that do are flying elsewhere. The snowbirds are returning home.

Changes come, revolving, repositioning, unstoppable.

Hills help me embrace change.

I have always sat on hills to think. They are natural confidants, and empathic.

Hills know how to accept suffering and happiness.

This particular hill has my nest, where I make things. It has now, for about a week, been humming
very quietly, underneath the hours, through the birdsong. This particular hum I am familiar with. It's an invitation to open out, to imagine, to breathe. I have yet to refuse such an offer.

First Quarter April

1
Sheltering
snow mold,
an elm pruned
shows
slow
slow
bud swell.

2
Downy woodpeckers cluck.

Singing,
cardinals,
thrushes (wood, robin),
starlings and  house sparrows
exhibit
prominent dimorphism.


3
During days

the weather turns in hours -
fog,
pellets of doomed snow,
thick drizzle,
dry sun chill.


4
Stars!

The night of bears arrives.

Near the horizon, north, the hunter flees.

actualization of

deeds

after equinox

sky's open
even cold
can't stop
this day

splayed

march was

ash and passion

next

exit wildlife control
humane specialists
that leave bloody squirrel to die in the dark

exit
working blind
blind mountain work
an avalanche

exit
grief encounters of the third person
don't
know
what this is

after cruel
after too much fuel
after
this
this this

what comes next?

ambivert

between

birds sing

"Wake up!"