There are no cultures or times
when summer's solstice had no meaning
no celebrations or picnics into the dark.
Poets and astronomers alike
positioned themselves on rocks open to the skies
to view the moment of mystical change
when our plenetary movement in the heavens
for the briefest of instants, like a child,
paused and wondered,
shall I go forward or shall I go back?

I presume, only hours now before the event,
that we will go back, the sun as far past 
the big pine branches as it will go this year,
still...
I like to imagine that our globe in it's spin
wishes, this year I swear it, I will not go back!

No, I suppose not.
Despite consequences for species
of our lovely lost little planet
it is strangely hopeful for me to imagine
that our green and blue globe
had a fanciful mind to travel the stars
as we might wish for ourselves
in our wildest wandering dreams.

My inner world is the only world I know
and that not very well.
I am not aware how others see me.
Thinking myself an intuitive
introspective introverted sort
I wonder whether I know who I am at all 
much less what others think of me?
And don't say it doesn't matter what others think
it does, if others can clearly see
what I've been unable to see in myself.
Of that I have plenty of evidence!

I put off the question for years
having one with me who cared
leaving me free to putter around the house
tinker in the garage take care of the yard
anything but take a long serious look inside.

She cared for me and that was well.
Now she has gone taking her love with her
while I abandoned house garage and yard.
I am left with my thoughts and memories
trying to make sense of it all
finding and putting back the pieces
of this Humpty Dumpty who took a great fall.

I thought I was doing well
until my inner self grabbed me by the scruff
made me start paying attention.
I am trying now having halted my own crazy
leaving me with time silence and solitude.
Not wanting these in such abundance
I've got them or they've got me
just where they want me - paying attention
at last...

I cannot rely on Zen to give me the answers
though I been living that road. 
Not even my old Chinese hermit poets
do me much good.
Trying to lean on those old coots
they just step back saying
Man, you need to do the hard work
we can't do it for you.
Bums!

Here I am looking up at the wall
pieces scattered hither and yon.
This is my work, my unfinished masterpiece,
having nothing to do with words ideas or plans
only taping and gluing pieces back together
trusting that there is something outside of me
that will know how to add the finishing touches.

Old now, youngish old perhaps, but...
in retreat my age advances.
Not wishing to let it take me unawares
I sit with it in meditation
yet no amount of stillness
can prepare me for the unknown.

Mountain hermits 
having left cities towns farms
of the Yangtze and Yellow river plains
wrote sadness for those living 
in the "dust of the world"
whether they understood 
who they were where they were going?
Sadness more than judgment
those for whom poverty
was as much mind as body -
sorrow to trudge along
past being able to choose
other than one's lot.

The ancients I read chose lives away
leaving monastic forms and rituals
abandoning communal life
to sit quiet live simply
with others, like them, who stepped away.

It is presumption to think 
I have anything to do with these
our worlds could not be different
yet...
my muse may come from distant lands and times
as she may come from around the next corner.
She comes when and where she comes 
when she does, insistent and clear,
I try to follow where she leads. 

Sitting in long silence
finding nothing to do
looking out the window
trance-like eyes not seeing.
I lose the words
nothing speaks to me
my heart is silent.

I've not come to the end
mourning Carol's death
memories remain
her face clear in my mind.

This is no exercise 
with beginning or ending.
I must decide how to go on
left with the difficult part 
no one to talk to of all the things
all the ten-thousand things
spoken between husband and wife.
I sit with these on my own.

Solitude days
are mine to have and hold
not warm and soft
do not hold my hand.
Perhaps they listen -
needed stillness and quiet -
hearing silent whispered things
I am unable to fashion into words.

I hear music playing 
cars going by
not the music I knew
not the times I knew
summer in the city.

I hear birdsong
see the big mountain out
volcanic glory and grandeur
Tahoma - mother of waters -
she hasn't changed 
has stood her ground
no matter the music
no matter the town.

In a thousand years 
I and the music long gone
she will stand
peerless over the valleys 
above her spawned rivers
challenging the sky 
questioning the seas
or she will give birth
rivers of fire furious wind.
Soon soft spring breezes
warm summer skies will return.

my authentic self
I don't know that guy
he's sitting right here
tap tap tapping
after loss being alone
too many moves
too much time
finally at rest
restless 
peeling away layers
of not me
I thought were
no. try again.
Ok. 

wood creaks in this old complex
early morning skittering on the roof
rats or crows I don't know
I've finished weekly laundry
wondering what to do next
sitting quiet for long periods
isn't easy to do 
I pick up poems
Li Po, Robert Sund, ShiWu
stillness hovers
making me close my eyes
gathering heat outside
I could clean something
straighten or organize
that done it's only eleven o'clock
promising a long day 
temptation to do something
anything as long as it kills time
"...as if you could kill time without injuring eternity"
says master Thoreau.
It's almost lunchtime.

warm summer days in Seattle
it seems calm out there
sunbathers bikers walkers dogs.
In an affluent neighborhood 
looks deceive.

The public arena
lost me following my wife's death
I wish to ignore it still
yet my excuse wears thin.

It is my world to love and hold
hard to admit this
having stepped away so long
I will try once more
look within to my heart of compassion
as much for those who march
as for those in high chairs
I cannot love one despise the other
no matter my personal beliefs
I am no one's judge or jury.

Hate is no option.
to walk the Buddha way
is to walk the way of peace
to walk the way of the Christ
is no different
the way of peace 
judging no one
is the only way.

Let it be.

finding who I am not
more than who I am
peeling away confused layers

small town Michigan
nervous skinny kid
four-eyed
didn't do well in school
not good at sport
girls a mystery
worked from ten years old
baby of four siblings

these things matter
those just the tip!

you can take the kid
out of Michigan
you can't take Michigan
out of the kid.

I'm a kid from Michigan
I'll never not be 
though I've tried
I'll always be that
no matter what else

it is good to accept
who I am
where I came from
Don and Senia's son
fourth of four
four-eyed doesn't matter.

The study of self
requires a form of introspection
reserved for the details of one's life
be they matters small or great.

Getting a haircut for instance,
a small matter regularly completed
by men and women the world over.
Why give such a matter a second thought?

As with most every interesting question
it depends on whose hair is to be cut
in this instance, my own,
at present very long.

It has been most of two years
to bring my particular mop into existence.
I value it as did master Samson
before the lovely Delilah shorn him of it.

In my case it will be the damsel Rebekah
who will shear my shaggy growth
in the morning and of my choice.
Samson had no such choice, poor guy!

I have what I believe good reason
for my well considered decision.
It pertains to a question Master Dogen would approve:
Who am I trying to impress keeping my splendid locks?

It is a question I ask myself of matters great and small
during my days of self study
a study master Dogen advised his followers
should they wish to study the Buddha way.

Who am I trying to impress?
I have applied this interrogatory 
to any number of aspects of my life
finding it apt to ferret out answers.

Who, I asked myself, am I trying to impress
in keeping and with difficulty maintaining
these hard won strands that I find 
over all my floor and every fiber of my clothing?

The answer is that I've deluded myself 
believing that someone, no matter who,
is very much impressed by my tresses.
Therefore have I kept the tedious growth.

Answering in the affirmative, 
that anyone at all would be impressed,
is never the correct answer.
That anyone would be impressed is vanity!

The task set by Master Dogen is to study self
not study others and their thoughts
about how I dress act feel think or whether
I ought go about with a shaggy mop or a monk's tonsure.
 
There are no matters insignificant
when it comes to the study of self.
To study any matter pertaining to who I am
is to study the Buddha way.