In all the worlds
in all the universe
all the sunsets
uncountable.
Here is mine
on a cool spring evening.
This setting sun
through green growth
and the wind.
Is there another
like it, anywhere
in all the universe
and all the worlds
and all the evenings
of all the days that are
or ever were?
Portland, Oregon – April 27, 2019
There go the daffodils drooping
as tulips open over wilting leaves.
An afternoon sky, chill and cheerless,
drops in a cold drizzle dripping
freely given glistening pearls.
The world works in wetness
needing neither my attention or care.
My fleeting form in its fields fades
into the evening’s twilight,
dissolves into the ocean’s night.
Seek shelter where you may.
Nap, dream, wake to a window full
of world spin, star revolve, sun set.
Stay out of the way, lie low, listen.
What will come is coming whether
I wish to hurry it ploddingly along
or stand in its bewildering way.
My wandering through the dripping garden
or along my mind’s fog-laden pathways
will not deter the wet world,
catch its fall, change its course.
What may be is that, blind fool,
I may fall, caught slip-sliding away
if care is not the watchword of my day.
Portland, Oregon – Eve of a birth day, April 16, 2019
Known spaces, familiar, old, understood.
Others talk of the wild, I pass them
on streets, have worked with them, schooled
with ones who did things, thought things I
could not and feared to step into their chaos.
I did not know, kept forgetting the silent
unassailed wild, the forgotten formless
danger, fear, uncharted space
nearby. Close, like a whisper.
The Atman* – my self, unknown, eternal.
Wild human forms have played
in the world, carved their images
in our thoughts, sacred pages, field notes
with names as if they were human
beings who strode the earth as I do.
They were the Buddhas, Christs
foraging in wild places, lying on straw
walking from place to place
from time into our time –
becoming immortal living beings.
Here am I. Out there is wilderness.
Not far, not out there at all.
In the morning I take my coffee
to sit in the season’s weathers
feel the air on which birds fly
through branches or where they perch
singing of their lives and loves.
Who is this being living in me
tugging at my coat and hat
hiding within my heart
crouching behind my own familiar face?
Portland, Oregon – April 8, 2019
*”Atman is the immortal aspect of our mortal existence, the individual Self, which is hidden in every object of creation including humans. It is the microcosm which represents the macrocosm in each of us, imparting to us divine qualities and possibilities and providing us with consciousness and the reason to exist and experience the pains and pleasures of earthly life.” (https://www.hinduwebsite.com/atman.asp).
In Cascadia 