Brotherhood

My first memory is of

his pushing me so high in 

a swing, I could but cackle

as though tickled on the feet.

Between time I learned from him 

how to throw a curveball with

such finesse, batters would be

mesmerized as they swung, missed.

My last memory of him 

is his pushing me against

the car, grabbing me by my

collar, saying, If you go in my house I wll kill you.

In India, by phone, I 

got word, my brother had died,

but ’twas a long time coming,

not at all unexpected.

The very day he died, I 

dreamt his death . . . then weeks after, 

I did go in his house and

found it knee-high with beer cans 

but for the room where he died

and where I did learn to pray.

Speaking of Close Friends

I think of the few I harbor 

today, knowing that tomorrow 

but one of us will die, leaving 

the rest behind—you must figure,

it’s not likely we’ll disappear 

at once, altogether done in 

by a single catastrophe . . .

oh, what a hoot that would be!

On the other hand, such 

a denouement does happen, 

so it’s thinkable, just not probable.

More than likely we’ll wither

away on the vine of circumstance

one by one, one at the time, by

way of initial conditions . . .

ah, the big bang then big fang!

Still, ’tis my very best guess, 

the end will prove to be but

a new beginning . . . unless

one can figure out a way

to turn loose the mortal coil

and, like the beloved salmon,

swim up stream to the clearest light . . .

empty many, One Only!

Hilarious Lunch, Recollected

Now it comes to me

why my friend and I

laughed so hard at lunch.

First, one of us said,

the worst thing about

retirement, your sphere

of influence shrinks

almost to zero.

And the other said,

but that’s the best thing,

because then you are

responsible for

just about nothing.

Sure, not so funny 

now, but then, at lunch . . . 

a kookaburra!

Lunch, Laughter

At lunch with a friend

We got to laughing

So hard, by the time

We could recover

We could not recall 

Why we’d been laughing.

Word Games?

A poet said on

the radio that

poems are word games—

any more is just

being pretentious.

What if word games are

the very pretense 

of making poems,

putting on an act, 

regardless of things . . .

all the while leaving 

world to languish in 

anonymity,

and poets to be 

swallowed up by words. 

Who would then miss them?

Freedom of Religion?

The very thing of

yore meant to unite

now divides us so

some can express their 

bias as business.

Sleep

Writhing in pain I

find it hard to sleep

so the mind wanders

wondering, Why sleep?

Sleep studies suggest

it is needed for

repair and order

of body function.

Mind function’s at once

addressed, to process

unresolved feelings,

thoughts, wants . . . stresses of

biochemistry,

like adrenalin 

and cortisone

storing guilt and grief.

Evidence points out,

lack of sleep likely

contributes to dis-

ease, forming disease.

On the other hand,

it turns out, the more

we relax, the less

sleep we seem to need.

So the why of sleep

points directly to

its how: find your way

of relaxation . . .

I but watch my wandering mind wonder.

Sooner or later words put me to sleep.

Resist Not, Other

We appear to come 

into this world quite 

oblivious to other,

all being but an 

extension of one 

self, insofar seen.

By the time we are 

five we know too well,

the world is either

for or against, so

we say yes or no,

in accord . . . our love.

We all love something

if it’s but the bit

that’s going our way.

If we will start there,

we might then see, what’s 

not aligned with us

proves the very path

to our freedom from

wanting the other

to be just like us,

not only twine, twin . . .

when, to love other

we must love our self.

Then, only then, we 

doth know . . . twoless Self.

The Grace of Grief

The story’s afoot 

that our trouble is

our finest teacher.

That’s believable 

but hard to practice

when you’re in trouble.

Ten days ago, just,

I was in the throes 

of yard work when I

quite wittingly stretched

my old bag of bones

to prune a tree limb

and unwittingly 

pulled a muscle that

had missed the memo.

The nag needles me

still; try as I will,

it’s taught me nothing.

At first I moaned then

groaned a mite, mostly

to my quiet self.

As the pain increased

I complained aloud

and without ceasing.

Next I tried the odd

muscle relaxer

but got no relief.

So now I do sit, 

not for a cure, yet 

the grace . . . of the grief.

The drill is, it takes 

time for such to heal

through much relaxing.

That takes patience while

remembering . . . how 

to do nothing, well.

Prayer: What We Do

Prayer: what we do 

with our life while we

are waiting to die

to our selfishness.

Not my will, but thine 

means to make the most 

of the worst that could 

happen in the world.

To so do . . . is to 

play at God, knowing,

the worst things come like

the weather; the most

we cannot bare to 

pray for, holding back

guilt and grief and lack

of a thankful heart.

Still, we never will

grasp whate’er doth come

from praying, till we

utterly swallow, 

Prayer: what we do.

(After Marilynne Robinson's, Lila.)

Rhyming

You heed the deed you need

to seed the word you feed the read

to weed the bead of being 

to lead you to life’s mead.

Vatic Sayings

No less an authority

than J M Coetzee says 

the poet speaks vatically

by ceasing to be oneself,

"opening the poet-self

to some higher power."

The astute Mr Coetzee

does not pursue, as David,

Goliath, so what is this

higher power he speaks of?

What do poets know of it?

How does the poet-self cease?

He does not say but points to

Kierkegaard's paradox,

Speak without power or right:

so self-ceasing might come not 

by act of will but as gift

of (dis)grace, following much

practice!

Baptism by the Book

Now and then you hold

in the hand a book

that, reading it, feels 

like a baptism.

Lila (by Marilynne Robinson)

deals with the crux of

the fix the upright 

beast finds itself in.

Ours is the quandary,

Can anyone be 

trusted?  This book I 

trust to tell the truth

about saying yes

to the universe

in the light of plight

and human hardship . . .

Robinson's stories don't lie.

Dirt Poor

Growing up in a camp for

coal miners, I remember 

learning what it means to be

dirt poor—having no proper

flooring in your house, only

the bare ground: maybe four walls, 

some semblance of a ceiling

overhead to shield you from

yonder elements outside.

Not that I had to worry

about such things, ever, but

I had a friend who lived thus.

He paid no mind to his state 

of housing, preoccupied 

getting one good meal a day

either from school, or neighbor.

No running water, he washed

himself hardly at all, so

none but I and one other

would get close enough to sit

next to him in the lunchroom.

He told such funny stories, 

when I smell need for a bath, 

I clear see his comic smile.

The Pursuit of Happiness

Presumed as the common goal 

of our species, happiness 

is rather hazardous to 

health in direct proportion 

to its own very pursuit.

So let happiness be but

the byproduct of presence—

itself not to be pursued,

but rather realized by

relaxing own self-being . . . 

then accepting how things are.

Holding All the Cards, You

With the clear mind of

sky, the bold heart of 

the deep blue sea, no

valley of shadows

will block the light of

evolving spirit:

your feeling alive

as if life itself—

every emotion 

charged up with be-ing.

What a Thing Is

What a thing is

is a function 

of the distance

from it to you.

That distance is

diminished by

contemplation.

At ground zero

there is but one . . . 

You.

Reflections of a Selfie

A head of thinning, greying 

hair, dark empty eye sockets . . .

all other facial features

disappearing in the dark

cloud of unknowing background,

then half a torso . . . lit up 

by a bedside lamp, and yet

no sign of personal touch

but for the trace, this poem.

A selfie . . . 

much ado 

about nothing.

Worthy of Notice

Every now and then

I engage no time

with words—that is, I

do nothing worthwhile

but make monk poems.

Poems in that vein

fiddle with riddling

mysteries of grace

and grit that arise

from everyday sounds . . .

humdrum sounds, humming

drumming to the beat

at the heart of things,

all the while all round

bending them into

shape.  Seems worthless, yes?

And yet . . . my dad did

teach me the thing apt:

Pay a mind to it,

see if it feels right.

Wildlife Refuge

Eyes are awash with sandhill crane

standing still upon the lake bank.

Four rare whooping cranes spot the woods

in the darkest distant background. 

Mallard ducks dart the lake fishing

or frolicking, a few sleeping.

A lone chipmunk rides the rock of

a dry waterfall, cheeks chocked, full 

of sunflower seed scavenged from  

feeders swayed by frenzied finches.

Among countless other critters, 

twelve are human and four of these

are walking through the bald cypress 

swamp, while all round it walks through them.

Vow of Mercy

The Tibetan yogi, Shabkar

writes of protecting waterfowl

from an eagle who would daily 

catch a few under his refuge.

Wielding a slingshot the yogi

would chase the eagle.  But once it

faltered, and fell in the water. 

Shabkar pitied the bird of prey . . .

that day spent lost in nature’s womb,

the protector of the sentient.

Shh!

Daily

awake

to dance

a dance

of one.

Often

whisper

to self

keep it

simple.

Present

come to

each breath

as though

the last.

Absent

pass through

the gate 

without 

a pass.

At once

at one 

be still

no self 

know Self.

The Self Interview

Once, my ego asked my self

how I make poems; and why:

“for god’s sake,” it stressed, then sighed.

I have no special wisdom

of the art . . . but of the act

I did speak direct and plain.

“I listen for things speaking

then put what I hear them say

in words certain—for God’s sake.”

Now that sounds about right . . . if 

it be understood as non-

conceptualizing thought:

awareness empty, no source;

a mind empty, no concept;

action empty, not a trace.

Words certain show uprightness,

as with a direct gesture

pointing a way to go, grow.

The very strength of a word 

certain doth set free the beast 

uncertain, less than upright.

The uprighters make poems,

music, all manner of art,

and laws for the sake of all.

Any uprighter worthy

of the name knows, art is too 

diaphanous for ego. 

Which divides art from art naught.

A Photograph of Memories

The best of the best of the best of me 

comes from growing up in a coal mining
camp, in the old house still standing today. 

It looked quite different in the fifties . . . 

and felt twice as big, with a bannister 

that wound all the way around the front and 

side right, to the very back of the house 

where then was to be found a big back porch. 

There was a chert driveway to the left where 

I fell while showing off my new bike to 

parents in the car in the driveway, their

having just returned from down the hill at

Woodward Iron Company Commissary.

Parents found out the hard way, what they knew

not, theretofore, their eight-year-old lad had 

finally found the pedals. The fall left 

a one-inch scar on my left knee that’s yet

there, where I put it, sixty years ago. 

Three windows now in the attic were not 

there then, nor was the privet surrounding

the front porch. The large tree to the right I

did climb often . . . whenever I was not 

flinging a ball against the center steps.

A picture, I took recently, when I 

found myself back in Mulga and, by chance, 

met up with old friends from so long ago.

The Mind of No-mind

Out walking you walk

the beat of the heart—

not mind.

Without the heart no

body can be but

a corpse.

A corpse has no mind

so it cannot know

no-mind.

No-mind is a name

for unity consciousness—

which proves

to be too many

syllables, if but

by two.

Yet no-mind is still,

the mind that lives in 

the heart.

Indeed so still that

it motivates all 

movement.

Being You

Moving through the world

the world moves through you

though the world is not

there to be found out

but doth lie within

you, while you are not

there but for thin air, 

a wisp of spirit.

Flags in the USA

We use flags to stand for 

that which we stand for:

family, team, town, country, 

corporation . . . even God.

We have a right to our flags

but the rub comes when the right

of display rubs up against 

another’s right to be free

of the harms of bigotry.

Context and consequence, 

next to motive and manner, 

do seem to govern our flags.

Our War of Independence

was won, so the  Stars and Stripes

wave over our nation’s pride—

and past: of ethnic cleansing

and slavery and abuse of 

women and minorities. 

Our most precious symbols are a mélange.