December (c, d, e)

December (e)

FLIES

Poems are like flies
or a cloud of gnats
Buzzing in front of your face
Getting in your eyes
Blurring your vision
making you blink
Asking for attention

But when the moon rises
They turn into moths
And if you place yourself at just the right angle
You can catch one
Hold it in your hands
And count the beats of its wings.

- - Eric Moes


December (d)

HAIKU TERRORIST

I don’t write about the Ancestors
I don’t know them
They don’t know me

Oh sure, they may have written a Haiku
Or Koan that brought a Samurai to his knees
With a mental marble rolling around in his head

But what is real about that now?
How about a haiku about mortgage backed securities?

That homeless guy’s limp is my koan
My utility bill offers me a chance of meditation
Sure you can write about peach tree blossoms
or strawberries at the edge of the cliff
But you’re missing the Nirvana in that can of boiled spinach in your kitchen cupboard.

- - Eric Moes



December (c)

MINIATURE MOON POEM

I had a train set
With a little village nestled in a paper mache' hillside
As a child it was real to me
A thousand times Godzilla loomed over that hill
ready to spew his radioactive breath down upon the villagers
Sometimes I stopped him
Sometimes I didn't
God I loved that village

- - Eric Moes

December (b)

December (b)

I want this world

Bright black stone
Marching sky
Soft drift of things discarded . . .

I want this world
To break my heart.

No, not what you think,
Not the cloying grief of loss, but more

The bright sad fact of the world
Of the whole world - -
Its taste, its touch
Its perfect aching presence.

That's what I mean.
The end of mind; and
Baptism in the great dark river,

Just here! Where
The vast and breaking world
Is simply home.

- - Amos Clifford

December (a)

December (a)

On Bear Creek

One thousand days.
These are all that this life
has left for you.
You stand on the broad
shoulder of a bridge,
rest the hands that you love
on its rough wooden rail
and it is autumn.
Sycamore leaves
large as dinner plates,
large as desire
rain gold and green
in even the slightest breeze.
Below, Bear Creek is
supple, electric, strong,
singing, singing.
The ouzel bobs
and glides,
at home, at home.
You breathe, an act
of power, of timeless beauty.
With one thousand days
remaining
can even this season
show you, at last,
who and what you are?
Or is the stream of
your mind, your heart,
your life,
ever and finally
a mystery?
On Bear Creek
a turtle slips silent
from its stone and
enters the dark waters.
It is at home.
Another day
has gone.

- - Amos Clifford

November (d, e)

November (e, untitled)

Sweating and shivering and glancing overhead
they bent in the field,
Elmers, Ezekials and Judiths.

The precious wheat
hard hands cut and bound
& hurried to shelter.

Threatened by ambiguous winds -
helped by a friendly moon -
they worked till moonset.
Half the night.

They ate their porridge
gratefully
when sleet beat
against November walls.

On this strangely balmy November night,
a full moon with a jet stream across it.
I have no idea where
the food I ate tonight was grown.

Elmer's bones lie crumbling.
Less than 1% of what he knew has reached me -
less than that is even usable.

Same again: like my body,
all I know will become mulch.

Hey, what will stand here
400 years from now - a Chinese Mosque?
I know someone said that.

But I forget who.

- - Deanna Hopper



November (d, untitled)

When the moon is
splendidly lopsided

limping along, glorious &
misshapen

I think, "like my life," though
25% of my DNA
is the same as a banana's
and it is way, way time

to be past this
particular baloney

or maybe time to
just get drunk and stay drunk

wouldja pass me that beer please

When the moon is full
I am astounded
my bra's too tight
we're so perfect together

I can barely breathe

- - Deanna Hopper

November (c)

November (c)


Revelation Angels

I have the night
and the road
and your voice on the radio

You are telling me
of revelation angels
fey and wild, who

Spill from ordinary lovers
and fools sixteen hundred
furlongs of deep blood, who

Wield with fiery blades
fell fury, burn and leave
only dim ash, brittle memory, and

In the warm gravel, the
rhythm of your voice
I hear how you love

Your radio story
how it binds together
the pieces of your life; and

I am thinking of how
I have come to love
the light of winter

Its long reach
into hidden places
the way it holds

A red river
of plum leaves
at rest on the damp earth

How tenderly it reveals
the vibrant green gospel
of new grass

Each blade
a revelation,
an angel.

- -Amos Clifford

November (a, b)

November (b)

The Tao of Words

"Plowing all year the paper field"
word after word line follows line
what the ancients have sown
strive to glean year in year out
a writer may pass through each season
but lives in hope of a harvest every day

"Still better mad than dull"
shut in for more than a week
passing days on notebook pages
for all I know and care
everything's as I have written
fanciful and inspired my world
black and white as my words

-Pat Nolan

November (a)

Goodnight PZI

Based on, and written in the style of, the children's book Goodnight Moon


Goodnight Zendo,
Goodnight Moon
Goodnight orange tree
Outside in full bloom.

Goodnight kitchen
Goodnight clock
Goodnight water
Boiling in the pot.

Goodnight cushions,
Placed here and there
Goodnight Kathy's
Funny little chair.

Goodnight teachers,
Rachel and John
And to their wisdom
That paves the journey we're on.

Goodnight trees
Blowing in the breeze
Goodnight Joyce
Who waters each week.

Goodnight altar
Candle and flame
Goodnight Buddha, Kwan Yin
And what's her name.

Goodnight Donation box
Goodnight volunteers
Goodnight sesshin and sutra service
And to those we hold dear.

Goodnight Temple Bell
Bowl, sticks and chimes
Goodnight Gregory
Our keeper of the time.

Goodnight basket
Full of pretty little cups
Goodnight Ryla,
Goodnight to her pups.

Goodnight Brian
Goodnight Zen, Art and Life
And to his insight and spirit
That he shares Thursday nights.

Goodnight all you Rakusus
Bowed heads, Namaste
Goodnight incense and dharma talks
Goodnight end of day.

Goodnight darkness
Goodnight key and lock
Goodnight bodhisattvas
Goodnight Barack.

- -Kathleen McGuire

October (e)

October (e, untitled)


You fall in the sea

& are drenched

with salt & stars.

O moon – gassho of

lifetimes.

- - Thaisa Frank