Once

Once, watching a film in bed

with but mind on the action, 

an eye in back of the head 

focused on a body just

lying there in bed: it was

his, yet not his, and the scene

clearly went on forever

beyond body or building,

even the sky got swallowed 

up in the expanse of sheer light.

Spirit Assessment

As an idea 

“spirit” seems dead, done.

As creative act

’tis alive and well

all round, all the while

present as presence

blowing like the wind 

through open portal.

You, Not-you

You start out to understand 

things in your environment.

Your understanding evolves 

to involve your bodymind.

You come to ask, “Who am I?,”

till all understanding melts.

Then, like snow in springtime, you

melt in the ground of be-ing . . .

resting still and silent as

primordial awareness.

All observing relaxes:

what’s what, what’s not, arises

in You, as You . . . while you are, 

at most, nothing in the least.

Assurance

One who knows

enough's enough

knows, sure enough.

At the Feeder

If you listen with ears of

light, you might hear the humming

bird’s lecture on the art of

flapping gauzy wings in tight

places while tiny faces

look forward to the fine feast 

rising, falling . . . with no fight.

The Empty Mug

Still, silent, I sit, I drink 

the morning coffee till not 

a worldly thing’s left of me.

Peer then into the empty

mug, observing no trace of

a judge, critic, point of view. 

One must be absent for there

to be present the Thou who

sees through one’s very own eye—

Voiding, forever, all things 

at once at one arising,

each interdependently.

No need now to focus much,

no intent to foster such, 

no clutching the still nightlight.

The Unsayable

What utterance can

truly utter what

utterly transcends 

any uttering?

Echoes of Feeling Be-ing

I almost never look for

poems, they rather find me.

They nag me till I refine

their ordering to suit them.

Well, so it doth seem to me . . .

but by then I am nowhere 

to be found, leaving only 

echoes of feeling being.

Like early this morn when I

did awaken to the hoo-

h’Hoo-hoo-hoo of the Great

Horned Owl, making me weep for

joy here, in the deep south of

North America.  ’Twas much 

too early to jump for joy, 

though now I feel it coming.

Who Makes Poems, Anyway?

There’s a bug on the mailbox

doing not a thing but be-

ing there, unaware of me

for I am now at my desk

making this poem, loving 

the bug that I still see there

with a sense of awareness 

that is not my own and may

well be shared with all I’m not.

The bug knows me not and I

know it not, and in that space 

of unknowing, we are known

as one, so it makes sense that

the bug be the author of 

this poem in the making.

A Poem in the Making

To make a poem I need 

no inspiration other

than other-than-me, and then

me, myself and I let go

so to wake as awareness

feeling being alive . . . still,

as nothing utterly moves, 

and moving . . . makes this poem

uttering itself along 

with all that is not itself.

Thief and Fraud

I’m a thief—taking from life 

words that belong to me not 

in the least, then sharing them 

as if they were my own.

I’m a fraud—using the form 

of verse to express what can

not really be put in words

for they often prove a trap.

Eliciting some feeling  

is what poems appear for,

feeling be-ing proves the point

monkish poems arise for.

Word made flesh, dwells deep the world.

Let go the rock of ages.

Give up the ocean of grace.

Have no regard for heaven. 

Be still, and envelope all.

Afore a First Funeral

When I was five years old, I  

went to my first funeral—

my mother’s mother had died,

“Gran Lur-i-a” she was known.

This funeral proved my own

honor for a part of me 

died on that venerable 

occasion of Gran’s passing.

As she lay on her death bed

in agony from cancer,

all family members  stood

in line to say their goodbyes.

When it came my turn I did

tremble from the unknowing

as I walked into her room.

She noticed and beckoned me

to her bedside with fingers

curled from arthritis.  Sunlight

poured over her poor body

writhing in pain and trouble.

She straightened up in bed and 

said the plainest of words that

did calm me, . . . Dearest boy, fear

not, death don’t last forever.

After she died her body

got laid in a corpse pose:

flat of the back, heels touching,

arms at the side, palms upward. 

To this day I pray that way.

The Unexpected

Following a long battle 

with broken bones slow to mend

from an automobile crash,

a woman in hospital 

summoned late night the on-call 

chaplain to her bedside and 

when he arrived she did say 

but one word, “Watch,” . . . whereupon 

she carefully raised her right 

hand to midair then placed her 

forefinger next to her thumb,

rubbing the two together 

for the first time in nine months. 

There was much weeping for joy.

A Christian Contemplation

Sitting a calm quiet space,

feel the stillness of your trunk

as though you were a huge rock

of ages founding the world.

Breathe the stillness of your chest, 

heart and lungs expanding as 

a vast grace of ocean wave

inhaling all worldly sin.

Then exhale from the stillness

of your mind, as if your head

were a vast heaven pouring 

down joy upon all alike.

Now resting in the stillness,

feel being so alive as 

to be life itself, aware

the One and Only of Yore.

What Kind of Christian?

So you can be a Christian who follows

a Jesus who’s the Only Son of God.

Or you can be a Christian who follows

a Jesus who is One with the Father

and calls all to be One with the Father

as in the beginning with God, as God

conscious of own self being in other. 

But can you be a Christian and do both?

Are You a Christian?

A chaplain walks into a hospice room 

invited there by a person dying.

The first words heard take a curious form, 

“Are you a Christian?”  Hesitating not,

the chaplain says, “If it matters to you, 

I am.  If it matters not, we both are .”

A Spirit Glitch

I go to make a sandwich

of tomatoes, fresh spinach,

mustard,—all on oatmeal bread.

I start to brush mustard on 

the bread but knock with my knife 

the jar lid, propelling it 

across the countertop on

its way to the kitchen floor . . .

but before it gets to ground 

I grab for the lid, it lands 

squarely in my hands.  I think:

is this luck, or sign of fine

eye-hand coordination 

for an old foolish man, or

a blessing in the spirit?

Later in the day, after

mowing the lawn, I turn to

laundry.  While taking the lid

off the detergent bottle,

I drop the top and it rolls

ten meters away.  As I 

go to pick up the lid, I

notice liquid dripping down

my trousers—which need washing

now, so in the wash they go.

My earlier quandary  

returns.  Before I return,

I feel this churning . . . chiming, 

Grace is all, in all, for all 

embodying spirit’s heart.

Ever-present Presence

This morning I awakened 

with love all around, aware.

Afore I say more let me

make myself perfectly clear.

I waked up this morning with

not a thing in my world changed

worth reporting: same bed, lamp,

desk, chair, shelf, books, fan whirring.

All things sane, insane, quite same

in my world.  Yet here is this:

My point of view was askew

from when I did go to sleep.

I no more was in the world, 

the world proved to be . . . in me.

Then, one more evident change,

I proved to be no lone me.

Because the One, the Only 

loomed there aware, lovingly,

all around: every where,

all the while: every when.

All ordinary, quite plain, 

not a thing to be explained,

only a thing to be done—

dedicate a life to love . . .

perfect a love for other, 

distinct, yet never discrete.

Relaxing Wording

To make, or read, monkpoems 

requires our relaxation.

By definition the art

of monkpoetry commands

our monk’s persistent focus,

our monk’s consistent intent,

so to usher in the light,

our monk’s nonresistant note . . .

which demands relaxed notice

that can take lots of practice.

To read a monkpoem may 

require reading not only 

one but ten thousand, afore

the feeling of abstraction

is blown away and the light

of direct seeing delights.

From mental consciousness one 

moves to wakeful awareness . . .

from spirit as idea

to creative act itself,

which happens but here and now.

Welcome to the Deep Humdrum

Saying the unsayable 

may, alas, seem meaningless . . .

too abstract from the living

waters of experience . . .

too far removed from feeling

as to seem too out of touch 

with people’s intuitive

sensibilities, and yet . . .

an art worthwhile takes practice

on the part of the artist

as well as the critic of

the art, and monkpoetry

is no exception.  Still, it

means the read has to be as 

still as the wording, awake

constantly to the constant

drumming of the humming drum

at the deep end of a wake.

So long as we insist on

remaining in time and space

so to confine our notice

to the empirical world,

we shall fail the radical 

empiric: Feeling Be-ing.

Notice just what is, what's not.

Why Monk Poetry?

It may sound highfalutin 

yet ’tis but simple-hearted:

If poetry elicits 

our own self-refined feeling, 

monkpoetry means to still 

our emotion, such that we

may attain simple feeling 

of being . . . though we always

already are be-ing such, 

having only forgot much,

for being, say, out of touch.

The monk in us in touch just

uses poetic form to

inform then transform all form

all around, all the while so

to say the unsayable

by saying only what’s

necessarily possible,

which by all modal logic 

points to the necessary.

The Poet’s Secret

I go to make some poem,

and as I start, this one is

not yet there on the page but

it lingers in his brain’s mind.

This poem at this juncture 

could go in a number of 

directions, I’m aware, but

for now ‘tis like I, unformed.

It might speak of direction,

itself, . . . seeking to answer

the query, Who’s directing?,

which at once begs the question,

Just what is the origin 

of this poem?  So far, then,

the whence and whither of it

come precisely into play.

In a way I’ve clued you in,

for already you’ve been told 

the poem’s fine location,

it doth linger, his brain’s mind.

Of course, you cannot see by 

his eyes, only through your own,

and your very view pertains 

but to you, and you alone.

So, dear reader, you also 

are very much in play here, 

and under such conditions

I will it no other way . . .

be-ing the One, the Only,

who at once, here and now, is

seeing through every eye 

all around and all the while.

The Grand Actor

Spirit is like an actor . . . 

with the finest of finesse

able to play any role

without getting caught at it.

She is the one and only

Meryl Streep of the World Stage.

She seeps through the scenery

in every line of script.

Each word oozes her presence

no matter how trivial

in appearance, or gross and

ghastly the role being played.

Spirit plays every role . . .

that ever was played or what

ever will be played, being

so versatile, vivacious,

even in the role of such

an ugly soul as . . . the mole.

While she performs ev’ry act

you will never see her act.

But in the role of you, you

catch a glimpse, her grand beauty 

when you go missing . . . then, and 

only then, she comes kissing.

A Wake

When you go to bed to sleep,

don’t right away fall away

but remain awake in some 

meditative state enough

to refrain from unconscious

sway . . . then you may soon enough

begin to feel relaxed but

not drowsy, not so lousy

that you have to close the eyes

altogether, so you leave 

eyes ajar to stay alert

like Bert on Sesame Street.

If you can do just this much, 

then you can close the eyes and 

at once stay awake enough

to watch the mind wandering

wondering what the deal is . . .

do I shut down now or do

I go with the brain: remain

active and notice what’s next? 

Remain passively active

just long enough to welcome

that first dream of the evening . . .

and if that does not wake you 

up, just wait for waking down 

where deep sleep shows you a corpse.

Unconscious, Word Thief

My sister—sixteen years my

senior—reads most poems I 

make.  She says I’m full of it . . .

referring to poetry.

By phone this morning she did

ask about the origin.

So what she could not know, I

get all my poems from else

where, lifting them as words of

prey from the dictionary . . .

or from writers more refined

than I, witness Ken Wilber.

I start each day, early morn, 

making a poem that comes

from direct experience

filtered through my unconscious.

Whereas afterward, I read.

What I read recent stunned me.

It comes from Wilber’s One Taste,

selections of reflections

on his integral viewpoint,

page three-hundred-forty-two:

“Can you right now show me your

Original Face, of which 

there is One and Only One. . . ?”

Ah, the title, “One, Only”

came from reading Wilber in

October, two-thousand-two!

Lately, I’ve been re-reading

and noticed the word stealing,

from lo, twelve years ago. 

One, Only

So long as i abide by

the world of things and thinking,

i will never lay my eyes on 

the One, the Only I.

And yet, as i linger in

the mist, my wistful worry,

i await the refining of

the one, the only me.

So while i wait for my me 

to wake up, grow up, clean up,

i can make up my me by

constant practice of presence.

And so i apply patience . . .

forgiving each and ev’ry

perceived harm done unto me, yes,

the one, the only me.

And i apply compassion . . .

being kind to all who cross 

my path, as all do suffer me,

the one, the only me.

And i apply gratitude . . .

being generous with all

for what’s being given to me,

the one, the only me.

Then in the fullness of time 

i shall tell my life’s story 

in the face of that true glory . . . 

the One, the Only I.