coming up
clouds full
of dawn

tassels like little golden angels dancing in pattern without discernible sustainability some it seems fallen skirts blown back, or else kicking high in un-understandable ecstasy, beyond the grasp of my limited recognition of cognition, of understanding fullest being, expressive nonsense..Acceptance that this is not so, or at least only partially so, one being one mind one heart soul eternal there is only peace. Joy. Love. the depths of despair are only a manifestation of too deep a rut, too deep a meshing in the superficial nature of things, reality. Simple truths seen as incomprehensible because they are seen from eyes flipped upside down, backward set them right with the primal pattern which always is and always will be. See from the heart and the mind will settle in peaceful abandon...
Write to recognize the depths of confusion throw it away when one wishes to see the truth beyond limitation...mind not good not bad one with all a recognition of the truth is by no means necessary, only be, the fullest extent of yourself nothing means anything beyond there is nothing beyond self, which is all things...there is only being. Ever-present within without the dynamic expression change is an illusion fostered in the depths of blind submergence...

border of bright
eyes it seems pinned
the bamboo

one branch
leads to another
another

I see a bird, red
and black his wings, fluttering
bright eye in glossy head

will he speak?

lone sparrow
vines come to
a stop

standing before the beat wooden table, artificial, I'm staring at a painting of white water, cool trees in late autumn, and a wide dim blue sky, clouds manifested as broad dashes of faded white blending somewhat with the blue behind it, so that the detail of the trees and the long staring streaks of cloud seem to express the fundamental oneness of opposites, the dim light seems to portend a storm hovering on the east winds...a waiting portrait blurred in a long time gale soaked with rain from the rolling Atlantic, all without the streaked panes of glass barring my eyes from the frantic surging.
somewhere sometime a lost sparrow's beating in the spray before sight of land..

think
how do artists paint
a leave-taking

sleeping tree, roots
how deep--my heart
even in apathy

winter echo
buds
and an empty nest

Sun streaming
the green smell fills the air--
cold burns my nose.

Green fields, shining, calm
deceptive beauty; I watch
trees fall to either side.

not yet
waiting for night
and a family gathering

inadequacy
seeing it another way
it is peace

sightless bear
perhaps in time he
will grow into it

See, below the hill
trees sway in even's breath
red poppies underfoot.

Butterfly, green as
leaves in springtime, fluttering--
sound, heart's chords.

dragging wood
now at the end of a long day
a song for weariness

for nine days
dust has smoothed it
this worn cup

By an old road
gate shut--
a blackbird darts past.

in spring
robin wings to robin--
this empty cup

on a twig
a lone sparrow
at last

feet bare, in bare
sand, I walk--always mindful
of seashells

as the wind blows
the dog cherry tapers off
like a tail
Basho

in the wind
tail streaming--the grass
a scattered mirror

looking
there a twilit orchard
is barred

or

turning
now at my back there is
a fading orchard




halted
now as I turn there is
an orchard

standing, on the
edge of green, the wind roars past--
a white tarp

or

standing, on the
edge of green, the wind roars past--
the white cloth, rippling

yellow tassels
set in disarray perhaps
a static seabed

what chance
meeting in a locked door
two kinds of fortune

See the drifting leaf,
bud, in sights embrace, fair so
Loss, perspectives gain.

clean air
even with nothing, my hands
grow still

coconuts
how small, swimming in a
balsamic sea

twilight
there on the waters edge
a shells beginning

or

sunset
there on the waters edge
a shells beginning

hanging red
beneath an old nest
branches

plain shapes
hose, cube, cone
colored homely

Clear, shining music--
Fall branch hanging down, black, and
red leaves; droplets fall.

is there a way
finding in an old photo
recognition

frustration
as tea's steam, I must learn
to let it go

The cup forgotten,
left, upon the rain-wet sill
will I drink tomorrow's dew?

for nine days
this worn cup has lain untouched
wake-up call

for nine days
cupboard dust has smoothed it
affection

Among the trash
wanton strewn
a golden flower.

after waiting
this deep chord--
we turn to empty seats

For beauties' sake
I trace this wooded road--
trailing pennants.

small flowers
clustered, at mound's base
ant's garden

after waiting
this poised air, released--
sound--tuning

dragging wood
now at the end of a long day
an easy task