In Ancient Japan a year was measured
in 72 microseasons.
April Fifth to the Ninth
was when Swallows Return,
and as the Tenth of May bloomed into the Fourteenth,
one could look down and see Worms Surface.
It was a year, drawn through a fine-tooth comb,
separated into smooth and useful and rhythmic strands––
Wheat Ripens and is Harvested,
Rotten Grass Becomes Fireflies,
Bears Start Hibernating in Their Dens,
Salmon Gather and Swim Upstream.
Even as the Butterburs Bud and Hens Start Laying Eggs
expect still that Ice Thickens on Streams.
•••
My own calendar hangs on a wall, a sea of boxes
arriving empty, seasonless as our eggs.
And for all the usefulness I've filled it with,
the infinitely scheduled appointments,
it remains, still, empty
of when Mantises Hatch,
Antlers Are Shed,
or when Dew Glistens White on Grass.
Slowly, as our only season has become discontent
and we find ourselves unmoored
from the daily almanac of the earth,
what could be more useful than to know
you can expect the whales to return and feed
as the young raccoons are weaned?
That when the turkey vultures are nesting
the blackberries will begin to sweeten.
That soon, the thickening moon will pull
the ocean again, closer to our hearts.
First published in Poetry Breakfast, March 2017
The ravens of Japan
speak with a different accent—
deeper, more rich and throaty
than the high-pitched caw
of their American cousins.
Or perhaps, even
a language of their own, where
in sonorous raven Japanese
while circling the blossoming
peonies and plum trees
of Hama-rikyu Gardens,
or alighting atop the pungent eves
of Tsukiji Fish Market,
they dictate their commentary
on the civility of the humans
peopling the earth below:
crisp and ordered as folded linens,
elegantly dressed,
salting each day
with a thousand thank-yous
and quick, generous little bows,
the value of harmony
laid deep in their bones,
the knowledge that
courtesy shown to others
reflects honor back to you.
Of course the vigilant ravens of Japan
from above the sculpted trees
also spy the hidden currents beneath—
the inequality, the stricture,
the regard given to surface things.
Certainly. Certainly the ravens know
from their watchful perches,
but I cannot tell you
how I would have found this
as a younger man
when I loved bold, high-pitched words
and exhausting honesty
so much more than today.
Today, when I find that I thirst
for even a sip of courtesy,
that I've flown halfway around my life
to at last discover the cartography of restraint.
How we treat each other,
in even the smallest things
is everything, it seems.
A point as dark and fine as the ravens,
slowly circling the painted Japanese horizon.
First published in Amaryllis, June 2016
It is the amount of water
you can scoop
in one hand
an Arabic measure
of what you can lift
from the cool glisten
of a hidden spring
what you can bring
to drying lips
your waiting throat
without even a cup
at the scale only
of a human body
a measure of touch
and volume and satiation
I am glad of Gurfa
water always tastes best
drunk from a lifting hand
and we need words at this scale
the number of tastes
that light up your tongue
in a bite of fruit salad
the amount of moonlight
that can fill your eyes
between blinks
how many notes you must hear
before remembering
a slow dance in a darkened high school gym
First published in Dime Show Review, February 2017
Were I a Buddhist
it would be sacred, that scene
of seeking Gautama, seated
under the Bodhi tree, right hand
draped down over knee,
fingers grazing the permissioning
Earth. And if I were not, I still would love
that, the Buddha's answer to the challenge
of Mara, crafty old demon
of distraction, discord, doubt:
"Who gives you the right
to seek peace, to be free
of suffering?" And his answer
was in the fingers, in the union
of skin and Earth. We are turf,
he seemed to say, we are dust
and because of it, our rights
rise from the rooted
soil. The stillness of the earth
can be ours, the Buddha's fingers
said. Or not, there is always a choice.
Which is also why I'm not a Buddhist,
because the mind's voice of madness,
every artist's passion play, gives greatness,
too, to the world. Suffering ain't all
bad. Stillness, madness, each
can crack the Earth equally open,
can swallow our doubts, or us, whole.
And it’s also why I am a Buddhist.
Or maybe I am a Buddha. I could be
so long as I could keep
to the creed of those believers
that I admire most:
Don't worry too much about magic,
about the sacred,
about zero-sum games.
Love stillness or madness
equally. Take which you need,
what makes you better,
what rings true at the time of each test.
And then press the rest,
those small black seeds,
into the uncertain soil.
And then give everything else, too,
back to the permissioning Earth.
First published in The Scarlet Leaf Review, April 2017
—where the dog and I sometimes walk
among the prayer flags flapping
through exhaling redwood groves,
past the stupa rising from thirsty grass,
around tiny stone cairns laden with coin and acorn,
perhaps to turn the prayer wheels that wait
to float merit and wishes
for the peace and enlightenment of all sentient beings
up through the salted light of the Santa Cruz Mountains,
out to the entire universe—
we are asked to please avoid killing any living being,
including mosquitos, while we are here.
•••
What an unexpected relief it is
to be freed of the need to swat at every fly,
and instead be able to simply sit,
watch them circling above the meadow,
aglow in the low evening sun,
from atop a rough stone bench
under the shadowy spread of the black oaks,
in receipt of the warm and mild wind
blowing through me the tattered prayers
of red and green and yellow and blue and white.
First published in The Scarlet Leaf Review, April 2017
Though I grumbled
into my jacket
and out to the dark morning
though it took some time
for an investigatory nose
to uncover the right
square inch to anoint
with the business of the body
as sheets of grey sky
thrummed my hood
wind whipped my jacket
fur quickly flattened
and I tugged irritably
on the damp lead
• • •
life takes the time that it takes
and all the while
what a wonder it is about water
that it can fall from the sky
that a thirsting Earth
can swell to receive it
yet still hide scents
to beguile low noses
what a wonder it is about dogs
to be as happy
in the sheeting rain
as any day of mildest blue
my impatience
is my business
not the dog's
nor the rain’s
nor the wind's
nor my socks’
which will always
eventually, dry.
First published in Amaryllis, June 2017
I come, occasionally
to meditate amid
incense, the breathing room
small bells, small shifts
atop black zabutons
the rhythmic knock
of wooden blocks
the sun exhaling
through rice paper screens
to let the chanting of the faithful
wash across my skeptics mind
I've known many who are Catholic
for the same reason.
The abbot reminds us
this service is special, a celebration
of the Buddha's birthday
that the children will join us
to pour tea over the baby Buddha
and also, it is Easter Sunday
so it is an auspicious day.
An auspicious season
the great wheel of the sun
has crested its equinox
and my Persian friend, Nima
has just celebrated Nowruz
Judy, Passover
a fine time to begin a new year
and as the little children of the sangha
pour tea over the baby Buddha
the Christians are consuming
the body and blood of their risen lord
and I slip out early, choosing
not to wait for the chanting
to begin, the rest of the service
so much bowing.
I'd rather be outside
on a day like today
there is no equanimity
in how the magnolias seduce me
peeling away their pink petals
the scent of jasmine, everywhere
and the birds, singing so loudly
that I finally understand
the meaning of auspicious.
First published in Communion Arts Journal, June 2017