Poem for the day from Larry Robinson

[Larry Robinson]

The Geometry of Water

Ask water
for its diameter dimension circumference,
it will laugh,
scoff even,

“You dividers and geometers,”
it might say,
“contain me all you want,
bind me in your suit of shape or form—
your rectangles, triangles, circles …
Temporary constraints, all,
I will wear them out,
splash over
leak under
punch through
or evaporate from
and congregate elsewhere.
And what do your shapes and sizes have to do with me then?

“My geometry is you,
you shapers and marauders of space,
My formlessness is your form-in-waiting;
You are my splash walking.
Your million billion tributaries
are my river
overflowing
into the living crust,

“If I am not your God,
I am the mother of your God…”
- Gary Turchin

[Larry Robinson]

Water


I think of the times we traced the leaks
in our boat to unknown entrance places.
It was the mystery and the game
that water played with us.
I would comb the shelves
with a small mirror and run my fingers
under ledges to detect wetness.
She would always escape.
Even if I sealed her out one place,
she found the next.
She was always seeking an entrance to my heart.
But I didn't recognize it.


- Mary Morgan

[Larry Robinson]

The History Teacher


Trying to protect his students' innocence
he told them the Ice Age was really just
the Chilly Age, a period of a million years
when everyone had to wear sweaters.
And the Stone Age became the Gravel Age,
named after the long driveways of the time.
The Spanish Inquisition was nothing more
than an outbreak of questions such as
"How far is it from here to Madrid?"
"What do you call the matador's hat?"
The War of the Roses took place in a garden,
and the Enola Gay dropped one tiny atom on Japan.
The children would leave his classroom
for the playground to torment the weak
and the smart,
mussing up their hair and breaking their glasses,
while he gathered up his notes and walked home
past flower beds and white picket fences,
wondering if they would believe that soldiers
in the Boer War told long, rambling stories
designed to make the enemy nod off.


- Billy Collins

[Larry Robinson]

Sleeping in the Forest


I thought the earth remembered me, shehttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-11-17_15-44-31.png
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.


- Mary Oliver

[Larry Robinson]

Epiphany


Just as I gave up waitinghttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-11-18_12-02-50.png
and turned back to tend the fire,
the full moon rose over the Mogollon Rim,
sending a flashflood of light
racing up the narrow canyon.


Sometimes the distance
between the ordinary and the sacred
is no greater than the width
of a moonbeam.


- Larry Robinson

[Larry Robinson]

In November

Outside the house the wind is howling
and the trees are creaking horribly.
This is an old story
with its old beginning,
as I lay me down to sleep.
But when I wake up, sunlight
has taken over the room.
You have already made the coffee
and the radio brings us music
from a confident age. In the paper
bad news is set in distant places.
Whatever was bound to happen
in my story did not happen.
But I know there are rules that cannot be broken.
Perhaps a name was changed.
A small mistake. Perhaps
a woman I do not know
is facing the day with the heavy heart
that, by all rights, should have been mine.


- Lisel Mueller

[Larry Robinson]

Wakeup Call


In our age faith versus science
believers state fables with force
ignoring stress on resources
the aquifers are drying


The jet stream snaps at the ice caps
setting bears awash in the sea
tornados chop cities to flatland
typhoons roil ocean and shore


Neo-luddites warn against progress


Insisting cell stems are human - alive
and not to be dissected or studied
That would be a challenge to God
It’s better by far to remain as - we are


Research halted - vision muddied
Cover up cancer with sunscreen
Let disease be ordained without cry
as genetically food can be altered
and the shale is fracked for oil


That takes complex understanding


Robber barons ignore facts
or advancement- count coin
as displacement of fear
and a garbage pit grows in the ocean


While the coral reefs disappear


- Maryann Schacht

[Larry Robinson]

Lay Me Down Out West


There's but one proper way I'd prefer to check outhttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-11-21_14-44-02-1.png
Just go unnoticed-- no need to be loud
I'll invite my old Shasta--in dog years my match
At twelve he's turned grizzled--I'm seven times that

Deep in the canyon past mesquite and sage
With a view of the river I'll turn the last page
On this long book of life I've been blessed to write
Chock-full of footnotes half stormy-half bright

My wife took her leave and rode on ahead
It's been near a decade since we shared our bed
And the Grandkids are grown they'll be ok
I hope they'll forgive me for going this way

At the final frontier I'll let my hat fly-- up to a cloud that’s driftin’ on by
I'll say "adios" to this land I love best-- when I lay me down out West

No you won't find me hog-tied to some city bed
Where they poke you and prod you and watch you to death
The Indian answer seems so much more sane
When you're no longer useful--just drift away

I'll settle for shade ‘neath a tall cottonwood
And ease my boots off 'cause it's high time I should
Take a strong pull of whisky to sweeten the spell
And re-run some highlights from deep in the well

As far as things go I've been lucky enough
But a stray bolt of lightning sure woke me up
I've marvelled at sunsets and lake-mirrored stars
Made my amends and healed 'most my scars

At the final frontier I'll let my hat fly-- up to a cloud that’s driftin’ on by
I'll say "adios" to this land I love best--when I lay me down out West

I'll unsaddle Rio--he'll find his way home
And Shasta will follow once he sees he's alone
He won't be too happy I won the race
By jumpin’ the gun through the last corral gate

I'll gladly return what's left to this earth
Not boxed up or buried by civilized curse
It's oddly a comfort I'll soon be devoured
And scattered by critters in the space of some hours

Tomorrow --it's settled--leave nothing to chance
Arouse no suspicion-pin a note at the ranch
The neighbors will wave as I go 'round the bend
They'll say "there's the old man --off riding again"

At the final frontier I'll let my hat fly-- up to a cloud that’s driftin’ on by
And say "adios" to this land I love best
See I won't be denied my one last request--as I lay me down out West


- Larry Potts
( L.K. Potts Full Range Music Petaluma, CA)

[Larry Robinson]

America: A Prophecy (excerpt)
The morning comes, the night decays, the watchmen leave their stations;
The grave is burst, the spices shed, the linen wrapped up;
The bones of death, the cov'ring clay, the sinews shrunk & dry'd.
Reviving shake, inspiring move, breathing! awakening!
Spring like redeemed captives when their bonds & bars are burst;
Let the slave grinding at the mill, run out into the field:
Let him look up into the heavens & laugh in the bright air;
Let the inchained soul shut up in darkness and in sighing,
Whose face has never seen a smile in thirty weary years;
Rise and look out, his chains are loose, his dungeon doors are open.
And let his wife and children return from the opressors scourge;
They look behind at every step & believe it is a dream.
Singing. The Sun has left his blackness, & has found a fresher morning
And the fair Moon rejoices in the clear & cloudless night;
For Empire is no more, and now the Lion & Wolf shall cease.
For Everything that lives is holy. For Everything that lives is holy.
- William Blake

[Larry Robinson]

American Tune


Many's the time I've been mistaken and many times
confused.

Yes, and often felt forsaken and certainly misused.

But I'm all right, I'm all right, I'm just weary to my
bones.

Still, you don't expect to be bright and bon vivant so
far away from home, so far away from home.


And I don't know a soul who's not been battered I
don't have a friend who feels at ease.

I don't know a dream that's not been shattered or
driven to its knees.

But it's all right, it's all right, for we've lived so
well so long.

Still, when I think of the road we're traveling on, I
wonder what went wrong, I can't help but wonder what
went wrong.


And I dreamed I was dying.

I dreamed that my soul rose unexpectedly and looking
back down at me smiled reassuringly, and I dreamed I
was flying.

And high above my eyes could clearly see the Statue of
Liberty sailing away to sea, and I dreamed I was
flying.


And we come on the ship they call the Mayflower, we
come on the ship that sailed the moon.

We come in the age's most uncertain hour and sing an
American tune

oh, but it's all right, it's all right, itís all
right, you can't be forever blessed.

Still, tomorrow's going to be another working day and
I'm trying to get some rest, that's all I'm trying is
to get some rest.


- Paul Simon

[Larry Robinson]

To Earth the Mother of Allhttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-11-24_09-39-17.png

I will sing of the well-founded Earth,
mother of all, eldest of all beings.

She feeds all creatures that are in the world,
all that go upon the goodly land,
all that are in the paths of the seas, and all that fly;
all these are fed of her store.

Through you, O Queen, we are blessed
In our children, and in our harvest
and to you we owe our lives.

Happy are we who you delight to honor!

We have all things abundantly:
our houses are filled with good things,
our cities are orderly,
our sons exult with feverish delight.

(May they take no delight in war)

Our daughters with flower-laden hands
play and skip merrily over the soft flowers of the field.

(May they seek peace for all peoples)

Thus it is for those whom you honor,
O holy Goddess, Bountiful spirit!
Hail Earth, mother of the gods,
freely bestow upon us for this our song
that cheers and soothes the heart!

May we seek peace for all peoples of the well-founded earth


- Homeric Hymn XXX adapted by Elizabeth Roberts

[Larry Robinson]

<tbody>
This Compost

1

Something startles me where I thought I was safest,
I withdraw from the still woods I loved,
I will not go now on the pastures to walk,
I will not strip the clothes from my body to meet my lover the sea,
I will not touch my flesh to the earth as to other flesh to renew me.

O how can it be that the ground itself does not sicken?
How can you be alive you growths of spring?
How can you furnish health you blood of herbs, roots, orchards, grain?
Are they not continually putting distemper'd corpses within you?
Is not every continent work'd over and over with sour dead?


Where have you disposed of their carcasses?
Those drunkards and gluttons of so many generations?
Where have you drawn off all the foul liquid and meat?
I do not see any of it upon you to-day, or perhaps I am deceiv'd,
I will run a furrow with my plough, I will press my spade through
the sod and turn it up underneath,
I am sure I shall expose some of the foul meat.


2

Behold this compost! behold it well!
Perhaps every mite has once form'd part of a sick person--yet behold!
The grass of spring covers the prairies,
The bean bursts noiselessly through the mould in the garden,
The delicate spear of the onion pierces upward,
The apple-buds cluster together on the apple-branches,
The resurrection of the wheat appears with pale visage out of its graves,
The tinge awakes over the willow-tree and the mulberry-tree,
The he-birds carol mornings and evenings while the she-birds sit on
their nests,
The young of poultry break through the hatch'd eggs,
The new-born of animals appear, the calf is dropt from the cow, the
colt from the mare,
Out of its little hill faithfully rise the potato's dark green leaves,
Out of its hill rises the yellow maize-stalk, the lilacs bloom in
the dooryards,
The summer growth is innocent and disdainful above all those strata
of sour dead.

What chemistry!
That the winds are really not infectious,
That this is no cheat, this transparent green-wash of the sea which
is so amorous after me,
That it is safe to allow it to lick my naked body all over with its tongues,
That it will not endanger me with the fevers that have deposited
themselves in it,
That all is clean forever and forever,
That the cool drink from the well tastes so good,
That blackberries are so flavorous and juicy,
That the fruits of the apple-orchard and the orange-orchard, that
melons, grapes, peaches, plums, will none of them poison me,
That when I recline on the grass I do not catch any disease,
Though probably every spear of grass rises out of what was once
catching disease.

Now I am terrified at the Earth, it is that calm and patient,
It grows such sweet things out of such corruptions,
It turns harmless and stainless on its axis, with such endless
successions of diseas'd corpses,
It distills such exquisite winds out of such infused fetor,
It renews with such unwitting looks its prodigal, annual, sumptuous crops,
It gives such divine materials to men, and accepts such leavings
from them at last.

</tbody>


- Walt Whitman

[Larry Robinson]

A Mind Like Compost


All this new stuff goes on top
turn it over, turn it over
wait and water down.
From the dark bottom
turn it inside out
let it spread through
sift down even.
Watch it sprout.


A mind like compost.

- Gary Snyder

[Dixon]

Nice poem! It reminds me of "Fresh Garbage", one of the earliest songs on an environmental theme (late 60s), by the wonderful band Spirit. There also the words can be interpreted environmentally or psychologically.

"Fresh Garbage"
lyrics by Jay Ferguson

Fresh garbage!
Fresh garbage!
Look beneath your lid some morning,
See those things you didn't quite consume
The world's a can for
Your fresh garbage . . .

[Larry Robinson]

For All


Ah to be alivehttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-11-27_14-45-09.png
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.

I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.
- Gary Snyder

[markwjam]

thanks, Larry.
I also love Greg Brown's recitation of For All,
that opens his "In The Hills Of California" (live at Kate Wolf) album..

Mark B.


For All


Ah to be alive
on a mid-September morn
fording a stream
barefoot, pants rolled up,
holding boots, pack on,
sunshine, ice in the shallows,
northern rockies.

Rustle and shimmer of icy creek waters
stones turn underfoot, small and hard as toes
cold nose dripping
singing inside
creek music, heart music,
smell of sun on gravel.

I pledge allegiance

I pledge allegiance to the soil
of Turtle Island,
and to the beings who thereon dwell
one ecosystem
in diversity
under the sun
With joyful interpenetration for all.
- Gary Snyder

[Larry Robinson]

In Praise of the Earth

https://4.bp.blogspot.com/_1x5sYpQDddw/S9ygzsOlC3I/AAAAAAAAAGM/gRGQ4YUoipY/s320/earth.jpgLet us bless
The imagination of the Earth,
That knew early the patience
To harness the mind of time,
Waited for the seas to warm,
Ready to welcome the emergence
Of things dreaming of voyaging
Among the stillness of land.


And how light knew to nurse
The growth until the face of the Earth
Brightened beneath a vision of color.


When the ages of ice came
And sealed the Earth inside
An endless coma of cold,
The heart of the Earth held hope,
Storing fragments of memory,
Ready for the return of the sun.


Let us thank the Earth
That offers ground for home
And hold our feet firm
To walk in space open
To infinite galaxies.


Let us salute the silence
And certainty of mountains:
Their sublime stillness,
Their dream-filled hearts.


The wonder of a garden
Trusting the first warmth of spring
Until its black infinity of cells
Becomes charged with dream;
Then the silent, slow nurture
Of the seed's self, coaxing it
To trust the act of death.


The humility of the Earth
That transfigures all
That has fallen
Of outlived growth.


The kindness of the Earth,
Opening to receive
Our worn forms
Into the final stillness.


Let us ask forgiveness of the Earth
For all our sins against her:
For our violence and poisonings
Of her beauty.


Let us remember within us
The ancient clay,
Holding the memory of seasons,
The passion of the wind,
The fluency of water,
The warmth of fire,
The quiver-touch of the sun
And shadowed sureness of the moon.


That we may awaken,
To live to the full
The dream of the Earth
Who chose us to emerge
And incarnate its hidden night
In mind, spirit, and light.


- John O'Donohue

[Larry Robinson]

Arms Full of Wildflowers


Gratitude means showing up on life’s doorstep,https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-11-29_13-36-55.png
love’s threshold, dressed in a clown suit,
rubber-nosed, gunboat shoes flapping.
Gratitude shows up with arms full of wildflowers,
reciting McKuen or the worst of Neruda.


To talk of gratitude is to be
the fool in a cynic’s world.
Gratitude is pride’s nightmare,
the admission of humility before something
given without expectation or attachment.


Gratitude tears open the shirt
of self importance, scatters buttons
across the polished floors of feigned indifference,
ignores the obvious and laughs out loud.


Even more, gratitude bares her breasts, rips open
her ribs to show the naked heart, the holy heart.
What if that sacred heart is not, after all, about sacrifice?
Imagine it is about joy, barefoot and foolhardy,
something unasked for, something unearned.


What if the beat we hear, when we are finally quiet
is simply this:
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.


- Rebecca del Rio

[Larry Robinson]

My Heart's Desirehttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-11-30_10-07-38.png

The thing that frightens me
About my heart's desire
Is that when I get there,
Or, perhaps, on the way,
I might have to dance.
Or improvise some instrument.
And release some cherished
resentment, carried years.

*- Jon Jackson

[Larry Robinson]

Flames

Smokey the Bear heads
into the autumn woods
with a red can of gasoline
and a box of wooden matches.

His ranger's hat is cockedhttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-01_11-19-21.png
at a disturbing angle.

His brown fur gleams
under the high sun
as his paws, the size
of catcher's mitts,
crackle into the distance.

He is sick of dispensing
warnings to the careless,
the half-wit camper,
the dumbbell hiker.

He is going to show them
how a professional does it.*

-*Billy Collins

[Larry Robinson]

A Supermarket in California

https://img96.imageshack.us/img96/695/vb04.pngWhat thoughts I have of you tonight Walt Whitman, for I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache self-conscious looking at the full moon.
In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the avocados, babies in the tomatoes!—and you, Garcia Lorca, what were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber, poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery boys.
I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?
I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans following you, and followed in my imagination by the store detective.
We strode down the open corridors together in our solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?
(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the supermarket and feel absurd.)
Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be lonely.
Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?
Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher, what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat disappear on the black waters of Lethe?


Berkeley, 1955
- Allen Ginsberg

[Larry Robinson]

A Man Doesn’t Have Time

A man doesn’t have time24466
To have time for everything.
He doesn’t have seasons enough to have
A season for every purpose. Ecclesiastes
Was wrong about that.
A man needs to love and to hate at the same moment,
To laugh and cry with the same eyes,
With the same hands to cast away stones and to gather them,
To make love in war and war in love.

And to hate and forgive and remember and forget,
To set in order and confuse, to eat and to digest
What history
Takes years and years to do.

A man doesn’t have time.
When he loves he seeks, when he finds
Her forgets, when he forgets he loves, when he loves
He begins to forget.

And his soul is experienced, his soul
Is very professional.
Only his body remains forever
An amateur. It tries and it misses,
Gets muddled, doesn’t learn a thing,
Drunk and blind in its pleasures
And in its pains.

He will die as figs die in autumn,
Shriveled and full of himself and sweet,
The leaves growing dry on the ground,
The bare branches already pointing to the place
Where there’s time for everything.

- Yehuda Amichai

[Larry Robinson]

Hot December on the Mediterranean

Furious wind rips at the pines
below the sheltered terrace.

Behind the pines, palm fronds, like knives
flash silver with winter sun.

A band of swallows
swoop, defying the weather

chattering like
angry housewives. The old men

gather indoors to read their papers
and lament La Crisis.

- Rebecca del Rio

[Larry Robinson]

The Soil Of My Soul

To: W.B. Yeats

Tis my prize those childhood woes live buried inside,
The soil of my soul of such matter consorted
And I always return to the same grave to hide
that inferno of shame, youthful ardor aborted.

What do I want with the sun, why would I show my face,
Give me the moonlight and a forest path to walk alone
With the wild mustangs and the paths they trace,
Our nostrils flare, breathing ancient air into bone.

The warriors, old Celts, knew well this potent rage,
In the lovers of old Eire ran the sap of rowan and oak
The modern man lives in a zoo, in a civilized cage,
And lost is the marriage that human to divine may yoke.




- Brian McSweeney

[Larry Robinson]

In memory of Nelson Mandela:

Invictus


Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.


In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.


Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.


It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
I am the captain of my soul.

- William Ernest Henley

[Larry Robinson]

Madiba (Nelson Mandela)


Lord take these lines
to the old lion, Madiba
oh how his eyes still shine
so full of life and I,
seem to be wasting mine
see, by the time he was my age
he had already written the next page
in the story of his nation's great future
for so many years he was caged
a mere beast would've choked on rage
but not the noble lion Mandela... Makana...
Madiba!
Great Father!
lift your tattered mane once again!
cross the savannah!
loose your mighty roar to the wind!
shake the heart of the earth mother!
and if she calls you in
break not your stride
you leave us with pride
indeed inside, I am a part of that pride
the tribe, of man,
blind to black or white...
red, gold and green
are the only colors we see
and the only fealty we feel
is to the standard of the Lion
so mighty Lord...
please... take these lines
or better yet take the nine lives
of these false cats wasting time
and give them instead to the humble lion...
Madiba!...
Kukuza kuka Nxele
the journey is never over!

- Oliver Sherman

[Larry Robinson]

Sunday Morning
Verse VII

Supple and turbulent, a ring of menhttps://www.artvalue.com/photos/auction/0/35/35338/neshat-shirin-1957-iran-rapture-men-seated-on-circle-a-1106735.jpg
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like seraphim, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
the dew upon their feet shall manifest.

- Wallace Steven

[Bird Watcher]

Sunday Morning
Verse VII

Supple and turbulent, a ring of menhttps://www.artvalue.com/photos/auction/0/35/35338/neshat-shirin-1957-iran-rapture-men-seated-on-circle-a-1106735.jpg
Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn
Their boisterous devotion to the sun,
Not as a god, but as a god might be,
Naked among them, like a savage source.
Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,
Out of their blood, returning to the sky;
And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,
The windy lake wherein their lord delights,
The trees, like seraphim, and echoing hills,
That choir among themselves long afterward.
They shall know well the heavenly fellowship
Of men that perish and of summer morn.
And whence they came and whither they shall go
the dew upon their feet shall manifest.

- Wallace Steven

Wallace "Stevens" -- (sorry, just had to correct. One of my favorite poets.)

[Larry Robinson]

Those Winter Sundays


Sundays too my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.


I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,


Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?


- Robert Hayden

[Larry Robinson]

The Monk on the Mountain
“Picking up what comes to hand, he uses it knowingly”

https://img594.imageshack.us/img594/5875/49tn.pngWho is that wild-haired monk,
That recluse, hermit,
Living all these years in his cave on the mountainside?

Does he light incense? No.
But he breathes in the dawn mist, heavy with pine scent.

Does he bow to Buddha? No.
But the broken branch of a tree reminds him of suffering and the brevity of life.

Does he chant a sutra? No.
But, every day, at first light and at twilight,
His thick fingers caress his prayer beads.

Prayer beads?
Does this fellow dangle dainty pearls or stroke glossy little globes adorned with silken tassels?
No. His beads are crude, chunky nuts,
Eighteen of them,
Foraged from among fallen leaves and
Strung onto hairs from the tail of an itinerant ox.

And as he fingers the bumpy surface of each nut,
His fingers trace hard edges, soft hollows,
Shapes that rise, fall, disappear
As his breath rises, falls, disappears

So who is this wild-haired monk?
A man like any other, he walks and sleeps,
Eats and shits and goes about his business,
Balancing on the edge of life and death.

Who is this man?
Who is that pine tree?
That drifting cloud?

- Nina Mermey Klippel


(Notes: This poem was inspired by a bracelet of Chinese prayer beads of unknown date, made of lithocarpus, the nut of the stone oak tree, which was exhibited at the Rubin Museum in New York City. The crudeness of the beads brought to mind the character of the wild-haired monk, from a parable in a text by the 13th century Zen master Dogen called Dotuku (Expressions).

[Larry Robinson]

True Night
Sheath of sleep in the black of the bed:
From outside this dream womb
Comes a clatter
Comes a clatter
And finally the mind rises up to a fact
Like a fish to a hook
A raccoon at the kitchen!https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-11_14-13-35.png
A falling of metal bowls,
the clashing of jars,
the avalanche of plates
I snap alive to the ritual
Rise unsteady, find my feet,
Grab the stick, dash in the dark -
I'm a huge pounding demon
That roars at raccoons -
They whip around the corner,
A scratching sound tells me
they’ve gone up a tree.

I stand at the base
Two young ones that perch on
Two dead stub limbs and
Peer down from both sides of the trunk:

Roar, roar, I roar
you awful raccoons, you wake me
up nights, you ravage
our kitchen

As I stay there then silent
The chill of the air on my nakedness
Starts off the skin
I am all alive to the night.
Bare foot shaping on gravel
Stick in the hand, forever.

Long streak of cloud giving way
To a milky thin light
Back of black pine bough,
The moon is still full,
Hillsides of Pine trees all
Whispering; crickets still cricketting
Faint in cold coves in the dark

I turn and walk back slow
Back the path to the beds
With goosebumps and lose waving hair
In the night of milk-moonlit thin cloud glow
And black rustling pines
I feel like a dandelion head
Gone to seed
About to be blown away
Or a sea anemone open and waving in
cool pearly water.

Fifty years old.
I still spend my time
Screwing nuts down on bolts.

At the shadow pool,
Children are sleeping,
And a lover I've lived with for years,
True night.
One cannot stay too long awake
In this dark

Dusty feet, hair tangling,
I stoop and slip back to the
Sheath, for the sleep I still need,
For the waking that comes
Every day

With the dawn.


- Gary Snyder

[Larry Robinson]

Reincarnation


What is reincarnation? A cowboy asked his friend.
It starts, his old pal told him, when your life comes to an end.
They wash your neck and comb your hair and clean your fingernails,
And put you in a padded box away from life’s travails.


The box and you goes in a hole that’s been dug in the ground.https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-12_11-28-43.png
Reincarnation starts in when you’re planted neath that mound.
Them clods melt down, just like the box, and you who is inside.
And that’s when you begin your transformation ride.


And in a while the grass will grow upon your rendered mound,
Until some day, upon that spot, a lonely flower is found.
And then a horse may wander by and graze upon that flower
That once was you, and now has become your vegetated bower.


Now, the flower that the horse done eat, along with his other feed,
Makes bone and fat and muscle essential to the steed.
But there’s a part that he can’t use and so it passes through.https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-12_11-31-07.png
And there it lies upon the ground, this thing that once was you.


And if perchance, I should pass by and see this on the ground,
I’ll stop awhile and ponder at this object that I’ve found.
I’ll think about Reincarnation and life and death and such,
And come away concludin’, why, you ain’t changed all that much.


- Wallace McRae (aka Wally McRae)

[Chris Dec]

Thanks for a good laugh, Larry! To hear the old coot perform this poem:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vnGNXoNX0Ag

[Larry Robinson]

My life is not this steeply sloping hour,
In which you see me hurrying.
Much stands behind me; I stand before it like a tree;
I am only one of my many mouths,
And at that, the one that will be still the soonest.

https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-13_10-29-06.png
I am the rest between two notes,
Which are somehow always in discord
Because Death's note wants to climb over --
But in the dark interval, reconciled,
They stay there trembling.
And the song goes on, beautiful.

- Rainer Maria Rilke
(translated by Robert Bly)

[Larry Robinson]

Duly Noted

Lives are marked in photographs of
Children hugging teddy bears
Catching salamanders
Camping out and chattering

Life consists of change

Old videos attest to shouts
and laughs and splashes
in the pool. The days are warm
but now I have no need to swim

My travel days are tucked away
in picture frames and boxes
gathering dust as the clock
ticks and rearranges

From Babe to child to tall to shrink

The humming birds and wrens
whirr about in the garden
Awareness abounds in smaller sounds
after the children move on

The stage is set anew

As memories fade to sepia
adventures retreat to recall
What was buried to be mined
in the landfill of generations

Time numbers the pages

- Maryann Schacht

[Larry Robinson]

A Warning To My Readers


Do not think me gentle
because I speak in praise
of gentleness, or elegant
because I honor the grace
that keeps this world. I am
a man crude as any,
gross of speech, intolerant,
stubborn, angry, full
of fits and furies. That I
may have spoken well
at times, is not natural.
A wonder is what it is.


- Wendell Berry

[Larry Robinson]

A Prayer from My Red Heart


O great grandfather, hear us.https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-16_12-24-40.png
O great Sky Father, listen to our plea.
We come to You as supplicants,
As mere human beings before the
transcendent vastness of your unfolding Universe.
0 Tunkashila, be our savior.
Lend us thine ear and thy power
To overwhelm those who would overwhelm us.
We are of the earth, Your Earth,
And they would destroy that Earth, our Mother,
As they would destroy us, your loving children.
Save us, Father.
We plead with Thee,
Enter our battle against the Evil Ones.
Smite them with a mere flick
of the little finger of thine hand, O Great One.
But kill them not.
Instead, fill their hearts with love and compassion
And pure knowledge of thy power and might
Extend your Love and Light even to the Destroyers, dear God in Heaven,
Teach them Oneness and Wholeness,
Love and Compassion,
Goodness and Gentleness,
And, yes, Sacred Fear of Your unleashed Might
Whether we die or live, Father, we know
We will be with You in that day of Awe.
A-ho!


- Harvey Arden

[Larry Robinson]

Bees


In every instant, two gates.https://encrypted-tbn3.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcRGokHi5SGyBfkoYR_8iB78pfX84Qx-lLx-Y6UMDo_VDa7LTLkmoA
One opens to fragrant paradise, one to hell.
Mostly we go through neither.

Mostly we nod to our neighbor,
lean down to pick up the paper,
go back into the house.

But the faint cries—ecstasy? horror?
Or did you think it the sound
of distant bees,
making only the thick honey of this good life?


- Jane Hirshfield

[Chris Dec]

w o w

[Larry Robinson]

The Instructions

The stars are my ancestors.24642
Yes.
And also everything that is to come.

If you’re any good at things like that –
you know – predictions from birds
and prophecies from the shape of clouds –
well then, tell me why is it that
my weather is the same as it always was
all over the world and ever shall
be, world without end,
no
amen.

Then all you would have to do
is look at the liver-spots on the back of my hand
to settle everything.

All the bookstores are closed
where this knowledge was one day sold.
So stop pestering me for info.
The thumbnail on your own
left hand has it all printed out
plain as candy.

After all, somebody told me to write this down,
and I’m no better than you are…
except, maybe, in the glee,
my dears, my lovelies,
in which I follow the instructions
inside the package.


- Bruce Moody

[Larry Robinson]

Conch

Hold a baby to your earhttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-19_12-26-49-1.png
As you would a shell.
Sounds of centuries you hear
New centuries foretell.

Who can break a baby's code?
And which is the older -
The listener or his small load?
The held or the holder?

- E.B. White

[Larry Robinson]

Credo


I believe in god
who did not create an immutable world
a thing incapable of change
who does not govern according to eternal laws
that remain inviolate
or according to a natural order
of rich and poor
of the expert and the ignorant
of rulers and subjects
I believe in god
who willed conflict in life
and wanted us to change the status quo
though our work
through our politics


I believe in jesus christ
who was right when he
like each of us
just another individual who couldn't beat city hall
worked to change the status quo
and was destroyed
looking at him I see
how our intelligence is crippled
our imagination stifled
our efforts wasted
because we do not live as he did


every day I am afraid
that he died in vain
because he is buried in our churches
because we have betrayed his revolution
in our obedience to authority
and our fear of it
I believe in jesus christ
who rises again and again in our lives
so that we will be free
from prejudice and arrogance
from fear and hate
and carry on his revolution
and make way for his kingdom.


- Dorothee Soelle

[Larry Robinson]

Solstice Song

On this midwinter night
let us summon what we’ve lost
with chant, prayer, song, fire,
faith that the nearly forgotten
will open and rise anew
and the world will turn
back toward the light.
Midwinter’s gift is memory
to hold a place for what was and will be again.
Leaves fallen off ancient vines
reveal gnarled fists of twisted branches
that even now push buds into the frosted night.
Low in the December sky
a tenebrous bulge of darkness
cradles the waxing crescent of a buttery moon.
And at the end of the western road
lies the black wet flatness of sand
where the tide ebbed and is now returning
in its endless whispering susurrus.
At this fulcrum of the season
we raise our arms and press fingertips
against the darkness to tip it back.
There are many winters in our pasts
and there is a time to allow our bodies to be tired and cold,
but beneath it all and slowly rising
like Lazarus to walk the warm earth again,
our blood is flowing, our muscles stretch and lengthen,
the pale green leaves encircling our hearts
await their unfolding.
We lean into the dawn,
eager to call the light home
and be young together
once more.


- Elaine Christo Watkins

[Larry Robinson]

little treehttps://img2u.info/ckgni/i/g3c21a46e.jpg
little tree
little silent Christmas tree
you are so little
you are more like a flower

who found you in the green forest
and were you very sorry to come away?
see i will comfort you
because you smell so sweetly

i will kiss your cool bark
and hug you safe and tight
just as your mother would,
only don't be afraid

look the spangles
that sleep all the year in a dark box
dreaming of being taken out and allowed to shine,
the balls the chains red and gold the fluffy threads,

put up your little arms
and i'll give them all to you to hold
every finger shall have its ring
and there won't be a single place dark or unhappy

then when you're quite dressed
you'll stand in the window for everyone to see
and how they'll stare!
oh but you'll be very proud

and my little sister and i will take hands
and looking up at our beautiful tree
we'll dance and sing
"Noel Noel"

- e.e.cummings

[Larry Robinson]

Credo24687




I cannot find my way: there is no star
In all the shrouded heavens anywhere;
And there is not a whisper in the air
Of any living voice but one so far
That I can hear it only as a bar
Of lost, imperial music, played when fair
And angel fingers wove, and unaware,
Dead leaves to garlands where no roses are.
No, there is not a glimmer, nor a call,
For one that welcomes, welcomes when he fears,
The black and awful chaos of the night;
For through it all, - above, beyond it all, -
I know the far-sent message of the years,
I feel the coming glory of the Light!


- Edwin Arlington Robinson

[Larry Robinson]

https://www.nightbeforechristmas.biz/images/poem02_sm.jpg

[Larry Robinson]

Credo


Creo que si ... I believe
it will rain
tomorrow ... I believe
the son of a bitch


is going into the river ...
I believe All men are
created equal—By your
leave a leafy

shelter over the exposed
person—I’m a
believer creature
of habit but without

out there a void of
pattern older
older the broken
pieces no longer

salvageable bits
but incommensurate
chips yet must
get it back together.

In God we
trust emptiness privilege
will not not perish
perish from this earth—


In particular echo
of inside pushes
at edges all these years
collapse in slow motion.

The will to believe,
the will to be good,
the will to want
a way out—

Humanness, like
you, man. Us—pun
for once beyond reflective
mirror of brightening prospect?

I believe what it was
was a hope it could be
somehow what it was
and would so continue.

A plank to walk out on,
fair enough. Jump! said the pirate.
Believe me if all
those endearing young charms ...


Here, as opposed to there,
even in confusions there seems
still a comfort,
still a faith.

I’d as lief
not leave, not
go away, not
not believe.

I believe in belief ...
All said, whatever I can think of
comes from there,
goes there.

As it gets now impossible
to say, it’s your hand
I hold to, still
your hand.

-*Robert Creeley

[gardenmaniac]

my eyes rephrased lines 21 - 24 and I read

In God we trust emptiness
privilege will not not perish
perish from this earth—



Credo

...
In God we
trust emptiness privilege
will not not perish
perish from this earth—

...

-*Robert Creeley

[Larry Robinson]

The Fear of Change

If you and I were woken suddenlyhttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-26_10-04-48.png
By the drums of revolution in the street -
Or suppose the door shot open, and there stood
Upright and singing a young bullfighter

With a skin of rough wine, offering to each of us
Death, sex, hope - or even just an
Earthquake making the trees thrash, the roofs tumble
Calling us loudly to consider God -

Let us admit with no shame whatever,
We are not that kind of people;
We have learnt to weigh each word like an ounce
of butter;
Our talent is for anger and monotony -

Therefore we will survive the singers,
The fighters, the so-called lovers - we will bury them
Regretfully, and spend a whole wet Sunday
Arguing whether the corpses were dressed in black or red.


* * *- James Keir Baxter*
(29 June 1926 – 22 October 1972

[Larry Robinson]

In Praise of Feeling Bad About Yourself
*
The buzzard has nothing to fault himself with.https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-27_14-52-31.png
Scruples are alien to the black panther.
Piranhas do not doubt the rightness of their actions.
The rattlesnake approves of himself wholeheartedly.
The self-critical jackal doesn’t exist.
The locust**alligator**trichina***horsefly
****live as they live and are glad of it.
The killer whale’s heart weighs one hundred kilos
****but in other respects is light.
There is nothing more animal-like
Than a clear conscience
On this third planet
From the sun.
*************
-*Wislawa Szymborska

[Larry Robinson]

Begin*

Begin anywhere,
the white-haired woman hangs laundry,
wide sheets and delicate blouses.
A line stretches across a burning
horizon of impossible blue. The
Mediterranean, our origins. Or begin

in line in a bank, the same hour
in another bank, in another country
a bomb strapped to a serious young man.*
Flash, obscene white light,
renews again, chaos and creation. This
too, the palette to place hues of time.*

Boredom: a beginning, familiarity,
routine. The gate swings closed. What
is enclosed, ensconced?*
The church bell bongs the hour
an echo of time to come, time
contained, time gone.*

Begin with tools: a hammer,
a hoe. A moment under gathering
clouds, a child, with blistered palms,
turns soil, the earnest immigrant,
on a steep San Francisco roof,
repairs the world, extends, renews

time. Begin by asking: who
am I? Allow sea, sky, bird
chatter *to answer. Ask
again, know there is no
answer but the mirror of the moment,
a window in the heart.*

Begin anywhere to listen, look.
So little within our grasp,
our control, our foolish mammalian
understanding. Begin now:
What is this? Who am I? *
Keep asking.

- Rebecca del Rio
15/10/2013
Sitges

[Larry Robinson]

Get Up, Please


The two musicians pour forth their souls abroadhttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-29_14-26-48.png
in such an ecstasy as to charm the audience
like none I've ever seen before, and when
they finish, they rise and hug each other,
and then the tabla player bends down
and touches the feet of the santoor player in an obvious gesture

of respect, but what does it mean? I don't find out
until the next day at the Econolodge in Tifton, GA,
where I stop on my way home after the concert
and ask Mrs. Patel, the owner, if she has ever heard
of these two musicians or knows
anything about the tabla and the santoor and especially the latter,

which looks like the love child of a typewriter
and a hammered dulcimer only with a lot of extra wires
and tuning posts, and she doesn't seem to understand
my questions, though when I ask her about one person touching
the other's feet and then bend down
to show her, she lights up and says, "It means he thinks the other

is a god. My children do this before they go off
to school in the morning, as though to say, 'Mummy,
you are a god to us,'" and I look at her
for a second and then surprise us both when I say, "Oh, Mrs. Patel!"
and burst into tears, because I think,
first, of my own dead parents and then of little Lakshmi and Padma

Patel going off to their classes in Tift County schools,
the one a second-grader who is studying homophones
("I see the sea") and the other of whom is in the fourth
grade, where she must master long division with
its cruel insistence on numbers lined
up under one another with exacting precision and then crawling

toward the page's bottom as you, the divider, subtract
and divide again and again, all the while recording
on the top line an answer that grows increasingly
lengthy as you fret and chew the tip of your pencil
and persevere, though before they grab
their books and lunch boxes and pile onto the bus, they take time

to touch Mrs. Patel's feet and Mr. Patel's as well,
assuming there is such a person. Later my friend
Avni tells me you touch the feet of your elders
to respect the distance they have traveled
and the earth they have touched, and you
say "namaste" not because you take yoga at that little place

on the truck route between the t-shirt store
and the strip club but because it means "I bow
to the light within you," and often the people being
bowed to will stoop down and collect you as if to say
"You too are made of the same light!"
Reader, if your parents are alive, think of them now, of all the gods

whose feet you never touched or touched enough.
And if not your parents, then someone else.
You know someone like this, right? Someone who belongs
to the "mighty dead," as Keats called them.
Don't you wish that person were here now
so you could touch their feet and whisper, "You are my god"?

I can't imagine Keats saying, "You too are made
of the same light," though I can see him saying,
as he did to Fanny Brawne, "I have been astonished
that Men could die Martyrs for religion-I have
shudder'd at it-I shudder no more-I could
be martyr'd for my Religion-Love is my religion-I could die for that-

I could die for you." My own feet have touched
the earth nearly three times as long as Keats's did,
and I'm hardly the oldest person
I know. So let this poem brush across the feet of anyone
who reads it. Poetry is
my religion--well, I wouldn't die for it. I'd live for it, though.


- David Kirby

[Larry Robinson]

Mochi Tzuke


The rice has been washed twice and soaking for two days.
Despite the "no burn" alert
the almond wood fires - lit before dawn -
boil water beneath the steamers:
three stacks of four baskets each
tended and timed under Bob's watchful eye.


Of course it doesn't begin here.
Harvest was two months ago.
The tradition goes back countless generations;
cultivation of rice even farther -
another time, another continent.


"Hot comin' through" Doug yells,
dumping the first load in the hopper.
The ancient GE motor faithfully turns the belt
on the equally venerable Nippon Industries grinder.
I push it through with old taiko sticks
til it emerges like glistening white sausage on the board.


Ed deftly delivers it, still steaming hot,
to the great granite mortar where Mike and Takeo,
at Scott's command, pound
one two one two
with long wood mallets.
Turn and pound, fold and knead
again and again until the master turner judges it finished.


"Board" he calls and a runner
carries it quickly to the hall and the waiting hands
of Cynthia, Kiyono, Surya and fifty others
who deftly pinch, roll and shape it
into perfect round silken cabochons of delight.


Meanwhile Doug brings batch after batch to the grinder -
one hundred thirty in all.
All day we steam and grind, pound and turn, pinch and shape
while Harrison keeps the wheels oiled
and Sherman watches over us all.


All this to give thanks for another year together,
to ask blessings and bounty on the year to come.
It takes a village to make mochi!


- Larry Robinson

[gardenmaniac]

Rock on ! and mochi happy returns of the season to you and yours.


Mochi Tzuke

The rice has been washed twice and soaking for two days.
Despite the "no burn" alert
the almond wood fires - lit before dawn -
boil water beneath the steamers:
three stacks of four baskets each
tended and timed under Bob's watchful eye.....

- Larry Robinson

[Larry Robinson]

Mochi Tsuki
https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2013-12-31_11-51-59.pngThe starchy smell of rice
fills the chill morning,
as clouds of steam rise
from wooden boxes
stacked over cooking fires.
Sips of hot sake rouse
stiff bones to swing mallets,
pounding sticky rice
to elastic smoothness
for Oshōgatsu, the New Year.

The men’s grunts
of exertion punctuate
the trill of aproned women,
pinching and shaping
still-warm dough into cakes,
steady rhythm of the wooden
mallet's downswing: hit,
turn the dough, slap.

I step to the granite bowl,
feel the mallet's heft,
focus on the beat to keep
from hitting my partner’s
hands, reaching in to turn
the hot mass of rice.

I close my eyes,
breathe in and lift, drop
lift, step into the task,
swing, hup,
swing, hup

for you, Obaachan,
for you, Obaasan,
for you, Mother.


- Jodi Hottel

[Larry Robinson]

A Blessing For The New Year


Beannachthttps://www.unlearning101.com/.a/6a00e55291856388330134867bf3bc970c-pi
("Blessing")
On the day when
the weight deadens
on your shoulders
and you stumble,
may the clay dance
to balance you.

And when your eyes
freeze behind
the grey window
and the ghost of loss
gets in to you,
may a flock of colours,
indigo, red, green,
and azure blue
come to awaken in you
a meadow of delight.

When the canvas frays
in the currach of thought
and a stain of ocean
blackens beneath you,
may there come across the waters
a path of yellow moonlight
to bring you safely home.

May the nourishment of the earth be yours,
may the clarity of light be yours,
may the fluency of the ocean be yours,
may the protection of the ancestors be yours.
And so may a slow
wind work these words
of love around you,
an invisible cloak
to mind your life.

- John O'Donohue

[Larry Robinson]

Winter in Clarence

There, it was good.
Even shivering in the gray mornings
dressing behind the bedroom door, open
almost to the wall, just enough room for a small boy to stand
before the heat register from the coal furnace in the basement
the icon before which his father
made solitary obeisance every morning.

Did the man, too, shiver in bathrobe and slippers
as he descended to the coldest part of the house, to
twist the damper, open the squealing door
add, then light crumpled newspaper
whet the appetite for anthracite?
Were his labors an offering to Hades, or to Apollo
as he slid the shovel across concrete
sure and deep into the dark bin, as he turned
and slung each load into the blazing iron throat?

Winter after winter
he fed the day’s first meal
to the beast that creaked and groaned
warmed to the work
announced with a roar
we could slide out from under three blankets
endure goose bumps and chattering teeth
dress behind the door.


- Karl Frederick

[Larry Robinson]

https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/walls.png

Poem

Teacher of reading, of "You will not" and "You shall,"
almighty Grammarian author of Genesis,
whether language holds three forms of the future
as Hebrew does or no future tense at all
like Chinese, may it perform a public service,
offer the protection of the Great Wall,
the hope and sorrow of the Western Wall.

- Stanley Moss

[Larry Robinson]

To My Students


You who can read,https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-04_13-51-46.png
do not take it for granted;
you who cannot,
there are worlds, there are gods
yet to be quickened in your dreams.
The worlds await to form on your tongue,
the gods to tremble in your ears.

These little marks, black as fly-droppings
on the page, and as small,
speak to you - you do not hear.
I cannot tell you the beginning of naming,
only how it changes and magic
sparks and sputters at the base of the skull.
I do not know if there is answer;
perhaps our speaking is enough.
Men have died always alone;
these small blemishes on the page
their final legacy.
Do not lose them,
these the enchanted cinders
of our stars.

- Rafael Jesus Gonzalez

[Larry Robinson]

Longing And Belonging


There is something which longs for me,
Longs to belong to me.
A life which enters with each breath,
Yearning to absorb the splendor
Into my soul.


This lover pursues me, sustains me.
This lover knows that I still cannot see,
And, so, pursues me with smell, and taste, and sound.
Anything, to get my attention,
To wake me up.


To dance with my heart,
Surrounding me with healing arms.


There is something so close to all that I am,
Which sings a love song when I can't sleep.
There are messages in the rain, in the sun.
The moon reflects it's glowing light,
And spins around, saying, "Look at me!
Here I am! And now you can see your way!"


And, of course, I take those steps,
Accepting the rose that appears in my hand,
And hoping the doorbell is going to ring.
While something waits patiently by my side,
Keeping me warm, and knowing the beauty.


- Jon Jackson

[Larry Robinson]

Death Poemhttps://www.sfzc.org/sp_download/SteveStucky_RenshinBunce_withPhCredit_colorbal.jpg


This human body truly is the entire cosmos
Each breath of mine is equally one of yours, my darling
This tender abiding in "my" life
Is the fierce glowing fire of inner earth
Linking with all pre-phenomena
Flashing to the distant horizon
From "right here now" to "just this"
Now the horizon itself
Drops away -
Bodhi!
Svaha.


- Myogen Steve Stucky
(Steve Stucky, the abbot of the San Francisco Zen Center, died on New Year's Eve. He wrote this poem three days before his death.)

[MichaelGest]

DEAD ZEN MASTERS
The guru says
Death dies and life lives.
The Roshi says that the horizon drops away.
Who is this seeing thus?
The seen is made by the seer.
Where no thoughts is no dust.
Where no thinking,
No bear scat, no eschatology.

found somewhere within beleif,
the shards of loss, our grief

by Michael Gest


Death Poemhttps://www.sfzc.org/sp_download/SteveStucky_RenshinBunce_withPhCredit_colorbal.jpg


This human body truly is the entire cosmos
Each breath of mine is equally one of yours, my darling
This tender abiding in "my" life
Is the fierce glowing fire of inner earth
Linking with all pre-phenomena
Flashing to the distant horizon
From "right here now" to "just this"
Now the horizon itself
Drops away -
Bodhi!
Svaha.


- Myogen Steve Stucky
(Steve Stucky, the abbot of the San Francisco Zen Center, died on New Year's Eve. He wrote this poem three days before his death.)

[Larry Robinson]

To Be Of Use
The people I love the best
jump into work head first
without dallying in the shallows
and swim off with sure strokes almost out of sight.
They seem to become natives of that element,
the black sleek heads of seals
bouncing like half-submerged balls.

I love people who harness themselves, an ox to a heavy cart,
who pull like water buffalo, with massive patience,
who strain in the mud and the muck to move things forward,
who do what has to be done, again and again.

I want to be with people who submerge https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-07_12-35-56-1.png
in the task, who go into the fields to harvest
and work in a row and pass the bags along,
who are not parlor generals and field deserters
but move in a common rhythm
when the food must come in or the fire be put out.

The work of the world is common as mud.
Botched, it smears the hands, crumbles to dust.
But the thing worth doing well done
has a shape that satisfies, clean and evident.
Greek amphoras for wine or oil,
Hopi vases that held corn, are put in museums
but you know they were made to be used.
The pitcher cries for water to carry
and a person for work that is real.

- Marge Piercy

[Larry Robinson]

I've broken through to longing
Now, filled with a grief I have
Felt before, but never like this.
The center leads to love.
Soul opens the creation core.
Hold on to your particular pain.
That too can take you to God.


- Jellaludin Rumi

[Larry Robinson]

Spanish Ballad


That barista, Mother,https://cdn.soundpublishing.com/voracious/assets_c/2009/08/DSC04524-thumb-250x187.jpg
with the dark-roast eyes
and the silver nail
through her left eyebrow,


who pulls the handle
of the espresso machine
with such imperial ennui
– Mom, does she not know

that she is killing me?
I have heard she is a pagan
though of noble family born,
related to the Grossmans of Detroit

or the Shaughnesseys of Darien
– but she is finer that that tribe,
with her dragon-tattooed arms
and her skin as smooth and pale

as the end page of a
vampire novella.
She scares me speechless with desire,
but I would give a million

to see her smile
and even more to tell a joke
that would make her actually
choke in laughter

and send the spray
of that eight-ounce energy drink
uncontrollably bursting
from her beautiful nose.


- Tony Hoagland

[Larry Robinson]

In This Season of Waiting


Under certain conditions,https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-10_14-59-47.png
when the moon in the western sky
seems frozen there, for instance

even as the sun is rising in the east,
so that soon two sides of the coin
will be facing each other;

or when the snow
which is a stranger here
fills our trees with its cold flowers;

when the single
bluejay at the feeder
is so still

it could be enameled there,
then the earth becomes an emblem
for whatever we believe.


- Linda Pastan

[Larry Robinson]

Future Perfect


Where you were
before you were born,
and where you are
when you're not anymore
might be very close.
Might be the same place,
though neither is
as slippery
as being here but
imagining where
you will have been-
that point
where things land,
are finished, over, and
gone but not yet.


- Lia Purpura

[Larry Robinson]

New Year’s Prayer 2014

As I have encountered the Dharma in this life,https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-12_13-28-32.png
And from time to time been interested in practising it,
I must have accumulated some merit during my past lives.

Throughout this life I have admired, been inspired by,
And, on occasion, had the courage to emulate my master,
So I must have gathered a little more merit.

Though shallow, my trust in the Three Jewels is absolute,
And I am convinced that they alone will not mislead me –
Surely a sign of their unfailing blessings.

From time to time I am moved
By the teachings of the Buddha and his followers,
Which must mean that, at some point, I’ve done something right.

Now and then, when required to make an offering,
I feel ashamed of my own miserliness,
And so the Dharma must have entered my mind to some extent.

As, once in a blue moon,
I catch myself trying to impress others,
My random condemnation of ego must have had some effect.

Although the feeling is rare and short-lived,
I have empathized with those who are destitute,
So, however seldom, I must have some heart.

By the power of all this merit and virtue,
May I not attain enlightenment
Until every other sentient being has reached enlightenment before me.

By the power of the merit of not wanting enlightenment
Ahead of all other suffering beings,
May I not become enlightened
Until everyone else has reached enlightenment before me.


- Dzongsar Jamyang Khyentse

[Larry Robinson]

Thomas

“What shall I do with the life left to me?”
I didn’t need proof. Any more.
He had blessed me with His gaze.
Many times. Many times he had looked.
Into me. And His look made me
look back into Him. All the others.
All the others put on their clothing.
But I – He gave me
The Immaculate Dispensation. Above
All. Above all.
No job. Just this. Examine it. This Gift.
Doubt. This Immense Gift.
Two Things. Doubt. And
Looking in it. You can erase everything
you think you know about me. And
to help you, I shall remove to Chennai.
In the luxury of a cave on Little Mount
I sit and putter. On the beach, I preach.
I tell them what I do and Who
looked at me and Whose look was A Word.
“Christianity came to India first.”
Too bad. I offered the distillation
of that Look. Too bad about Christianity.
Regret? No. They heard many words.
I heard the One He never spoke.


- Bruce Moody

[Larry Robinson]

Moon Path

(To my wife, Betty)

A pearl floating in a cloudless sky,https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-NdCQ0HWgwj8/ToGNoVpRhvI/AAAAAAAACio/lgQbOTXxa2M/s200/lovers_by_moonlight-interlaced.gif
the moon has paved the bay.
It has laid down a path of rippling silver across the water
leading from here to where?
Beyond beyond.

From my window in the hills
I watch an unreal world
toy-sized cars and ships and trains
movement without sound
noisy engines beyond hearing
calm and silent.
Not really.
I know the people who drive the distant freeway
are troubled souls drowning in the daily terror and trivia
as I have for a lifetime.

Official lies, bleak prophesies.
The soils of Africa are planted with the bones of children.
Mad Arabs have turned their god into a butcher.
The head of Citibank insists he deserves every penny he stole.
Rich and poor, lives driven by the fuel of greed and desperation.
Do they ever catch a glimmer of the moon path
and the great quiet that waits to be found
on the far side of the horrors?

There beyond Mount Tam and the Golden Bridge
the world of stars that bless us with lordly beauty and indifference.
Always there.
Always there, waiting.
The moon. The path. The quiet.

I remember another moon-bright night like this years past.
The old Dodge parked up a dark street in Thousand Oaks,
the best young lovers could do to find seclusion.
You leaned across me in the car to look out the window.
"What a beautiful moon," you said.
I can remember the warm softness of your body pressed against me
and the countless kisses that followed
each, though we did not know it at the time, a pledge that said
"I will stay with you. I will be here at the last."
Were we ever that young?

Did I know at some level of the mind
when I chose you to be my one love
that you would do more to lead me to the path
than any words of wisdom?
Sensitive and innocent, we deserved a better world.
But what we got was a swamp of illusions
where madmen contend for the dross of life.

"Do you know this samsara?" Baker Roshi once asked me, smiling,
as if laughter were the best answer to despair.
You don't escape it. You don't work your way out.
Then what?
You wait.
Until?
Until you realize, "hey, I'm already on the path."
No place to go.
Nothing to do.
Wait.


- Theodore Roszak (1933-2011)

[Larry Robinson]

Prayer/Poem

Would it be too much to ask:
Put paper on the roll.
Don’t let the door slam.
Close the window.

Ask and listen.
See people.
Have a care.
Would that be too much to ask?

Would it be too much to ask:
Let the turtle cross.
Give the skunk room.
Look out for the raccoon.

Welcome the bear on the trail.
Offer the wolf a lake.
Leave the glacier in the pass.
Would that be so much to ask?

Would it be too much to ask:
Heal my memory.
Find me fifty hugs.
Make me prehensile feet.

Resurrect my dog.
Bring back John Lennon.
Undo chestnut blight.
Is that so much to ask?

Would it be too much to ask:
Multiply birdsong.
Unfreeze our obsession with leaders.
Keep bees on the flowers.

Supply many orgasms.
Insure sweet fruit.
Decrease greed.
Really, is that so much to ask?

Would it be too much to ask:
Emblazon our feathers with color.
Encourage the playfulness of our young.
Increase our knowledge of languages.

Awaken poetry.
Deify beauty.
Raise up truth.
Is that too much to ask?

Would it be too much to ask:
Stop violence against children.
Preserve the oceans.
Cause hope to flourish.

Steer earth on course.
Prevent us destroying everything.
Teach us to love life.
After all, is that so much to ask?

- Dale Rosenkrantz

[Larry Robinson]

Candle Hat


In most self-portraits it is the face that dominates:
Cezanne is a pair of eyes swimming in brushstrokes,
Van Gogh stares out of a halo of swirling darkness,
Rembrant looks relieved as if he were taking a breather
from painting The Blinding of Sampson.

But in this one Goya stands well back from the mirror
and is seen posed in the clutter of his studio
addressing a canvas tilted back on a tall easel.

He appears to be smiling out at us as if he knew
we would be amused by the extraordinary hat on his head
which is fitted around the brim with candle holders,
a device that allowed him to work into the night.

You can only wonder what it would be like
to be wearing such a chandelier on your head
as if you were a walking dining room or concert hall.

But once you see this hat there is no need to read
any biography of Goya or to memorize his dates.

To understand Goya you only have to imagine him
lighting the candles one by one, then placing
the hat on his head, ready for a night of work.

Imagine him surprising his wife with his new invention,
the laughing like a birthday cake when she saw the glow.

Imagine him flickering through the rooms of his house
with all the shadows flying across the walls.

Imagine a lost traveler knocking on his door
one dark night in the hill country of Spain.
"Come in, " he would say, "I was just painting myself,"
as he stood in the doorway holding up the wand of a brush,
illuminated in the blaze of his famous candle hat.
- Billy Collins

[markwjam]

here's another HAT for ye, Larry..thanks for the poem:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N3zmcg0VOk0

Mark B.

[Larry Robinson]

Hokusai Says


Hokusai says Look carefully.https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-18_14-42-59.png
He says pay attention, notice.
He says keep looking, stay curious.
He says there is no end to seeing.


He says Look Forward to getting old.
He says keep changing,
you just get more who you really are.
He says get stuck, accept it, repeat yourself
as long as it's interesting.


He says keep doing what you love.
He says keep praying.
He says every one of us is a child,


every one of us is ancient,
every one of us has a body.
He says every one of us is frightened.
He says every one of us has to find a way to live with fear.


He says everything is alive -
shells, buildings, people, fish, mountains, trees.
Wood is alive.
Water is alive.
Everything has its own life.
Everything lives inside us.
He says live with the world inside you.


He says it doesn't matter if you draw, or write books.
It doesn't matter if you saw wood, or catch fish.
It doesn't matter if you sit at home
and stare at the ants on your verandah or the shadows of the trees
and grasses in your garden.


It matters that you care.
It matters that you feel.
It matters that you notice.
It matters that life lives through you.


Contentment is life living through you.
Joy is life living through you.
Satisfaction and strength
are life living through you.
Peace is life living through you.


He says don't be afraid.
Don't be afraid.
Look, feel, let life take you by the hand.
Let life live through you.


- Roger Keyes

[Larry Robinson]

Fugitive


This body, like a caved-in greenhouse,https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-19_13-23-57.png
no longer craves the sun nor traps the heat.

This body is pungent of loam,
crushed petals, the rot of leaves and roots,
the fading breath of summer.

This body, shape-shifted, is fugitive.

They will seek it in the sun-blasted hothouse.
They will find the broken frame, the shards of glass.
They will finger the shape of absence.

This body burns with the moon,
aflame along the path of beaten silver.

This body reclaims its larger self upon the map of the sky.

Releasing its scant purchase, this body
finds its satisfaction in smaller and smaller wonders.


- Susan Lamont

[Larry Robinson]

Orion by the agate sea


by the drive where the old dogwood tree
stands with raucous birds in her hair
and spider fairies sail into the wind


Orion in your backdrop of solid crows
where the moon climbs through plums
and shimmering scales of robins sleep
waiting for the sun's slick tongue -


the rip of darkness, the opening of its veins,
the pulse of dreams rustling like straw-
you witness everything - a woman's body -
delineated by wind and silk moving smoke,


a lone man in a yellow window
counting dreams,
the ways that sunlight falls.


- Katherine Hastings
(Katherine Hastings is Sonoma County's Poet Laureate)

[Larry Robinson]

Stories


Let me think of the way that story goes
About the king of time and his long robes.
The world is breathless for good storytelling.
Always words find their way out of us
And our mouths shape them firm and forever.
Sometimes songs come into us flowing from streams
Towards places sounds have never been.
Always other voices are speaking through us.
Stories wander the royal road of dreams
With their silent language. Words arrive
The way the shaman came, the first teller,
Then came the prophets and their retelling.
Many sounds faded, forgotten or ripened to return

Again when synchronicity could acquire its sense of timing.

Words find their warmth in the moist mouth of revelation.
These stories cross the far horizons and in time find each other.
That occurrence is a gift as written records tell the tales
On stone, on leaf, parchment and on the page of living memory.
Stories are our eternal bread. They reveal the divine passwords
At the gates that open to the center of our lives.


- Richard Meyers

[Larry Robinson]

After Finding the Body


The report always says, "the body
was found by a hiker…a fisherman…a camper in the back country, gathering firewood."
Stops there, cuts


to family, an official speaking in regretful, solemn sentences.


The victim's face smiles from a wedding photo, a passport, a family video—twirling on a backyard swing.


The hiker, fisherman, or camper who abandoned routine life,
Returns to an altered world, staggering
with the weight of unexpected death.
The body forever carried in a heart.


- Rebecca del Rio

[Larry Robinson]

I Went into the Maverick Bar


I went into the Maverick Bar https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-23_10-06-40.png
Gary Synder
In Farmington, New Mexico.
And drank double shots of bourbon
backed with beer.
My long hair was tucked up under a cap
I’d left the earring in the car.


Two cowboys did horseplay
by the pool tables,
A waitress asked us
where are you from?
a country-and-western band began to play
“We don’t smoke Marijuana in Muskokie”
And with the next song,
a couple began to dance.


They held each other like in High School dances
in the fifties;
I recalled when I worked in the woods
and the bars of Madras, Oregon.
That short-haired joy and roughness—
America—your stupidity.
I could almost love you again.


We left—onto the freeway shoulders—
under the tough old stars—
In the shadow of bluffs
I came back to myself,
To the real work, to
“What is to be done.”


- Gary Snyder

[Larry Robinson]

To the Garbage Collectors in Bloomington, Indiana, the First Pickup of the Year


(the way bed is in winter, like an aproned lap,
like furry mittens,
like childhood crouching under tables)
The Ninth Day of Xmas, in the morning black
outside our window: clattering cans, the whir
of a hopper, shouts, a whistle, move on ...
I see them in my warm imagination
the way I’ll see them later in the cold,
heaving the huge cans and running
(running!) to the next house on the street.


My vestiges of muscle stir
uneasily in their percale cocoon:
what moves those men out there, what
drives them running to the next house and the next?
Halfway back to dream, I speculate:
The Social Weal? “Let’s make good old
Bloomington a cleaner place
to live in—right, men? Hup, tha!”
Healthy Competition? “Come on, boys,
let’s burn up that route today and beat those dudes
on truck thirteen!”
Enlightened Self-Interest? “Another can,
another dollar—don’t slow down, Mac, I’m puttin’
three kids through Princeton?”
Or something else?
Terror?


A half hour later, dawn comes edging over
Clark Street: layers of color, laid out like
a flattened rainbow—red, then yellow, green,
and over that the black-and-blue of night
still hanging on. Clark Street maples wave
their silhouettes against the red, and through
the twiggy trees, I see a solid chunk
of garbage truck, and stick-figures of men,
like windup toys, tossing little cans—
and running.


All day they’ll go like that, till dark again,
and all day, people fussing at their desks,
at hot stoves, at machines, will jettison
tin cans, bare evergreens, damp Kleenex, all
things that are Caesar’s.


O garbage men,
the New Year greets you like the Old;
after this first run you too may rest
in beds like great warm aproned laps
and know that people everywhere have faith:
putting from them all things of this world,
they confidently bide your second coming.


- Phillip Appleman

[Larry Robinson]

The clock struck

The clock struck twelve times. . .and it was a spade
knocked twelve times against the earth.https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-25_12-58-05.png
. . .”It’s my turn!” I cried. . .The silence
answered me: Do not be afraid.
You will never see the last drop fall
that now is trembling in the water clock.


You will still sleep many hours
here on the beach,
and one clear morning you will find
your boat tied to another shore.



- Antonio Machado
(translated by Robert Bly)

[Larry Robinson]

Discontinuous Poems

The frightful reality of thingshttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-26_14-31-44.png
Is my everyday discovery.
Each thing is what it is.
How can I explain to anyone how much
I rejoice over this, and find it enough?

To be whole, it is enough to exist.

I have written quite a number of poems
And may write many more, of course.
Each poem of mine explains it,
Though all my poems are different,
Because each thing that exists is always proclaiming it.

Sometimes I busy myself with watching a stone,
I don't begin thinking whether it feels.
I don't force myself to call it my sister,

But I enjoy it because of its being a stone,
I enjoy it because it feels nothing,
I enjoy it because it is not at all related to me.

At times I also hear the wind blow by
And find that merely to hear the wind blow makes
it worth having been born.

I don't know what others will think who read this;
But I find it must be good because I think it
without effort,
And without the idea of others hearing me think,
Because I think it without thoughts,
Because I say it as my words say it.

Once they called me a materialist poet
And I admired myself because I never thought
That I might be called by any name at all.
I am not even a poet: I see.
If what I write has any value, it is not I who am
valuable.
The value is there, in my verses.
All this has nothing whatever to do with any will
of mine.
- Alberto Caeiro
(Fernando António Nogueira Pêssoa, 1888 - 1935. Translated By Edouard Roditi)

[Larry Robinson]

Rough Metaphors

Someone said, "There is no dervish, or if there is a dervish,
that dervish is not there."


Look at a candle flame in the bright noon sunlight
if you put cotton next to it, the cotton will burn,
but its light has become completely mixed
with the sun.


That candlelight you can't find is what's left of a dervish.


If you sprinkle one ounce of vinegar over
two hundred tons of sugar,
no one will ever taste the vinegar.


A deer faints in the paws of a lion. The deer becomes
another glazed expression on the face of the lion.


These are rough metaphors for what happens to the lover.


There's no one more openly irreverent than a lover. He, or she,
jumps up on the scale opposite eternity
and claims to balance it.


And no one more secretly reverent.


A grammar lesson: "The lover died."
"Lover" is subject and agent, but that can't be!
The lover is defunct.


Only grammatically is the dervish-lover a doer.


In reality, with he or she so overcome,
so dissolved into love,
all qualities of doingness
disappear.


- Jelalludin Rumi
(Version by Coleman Barks)

[Larry Robinson]

Turn! Turn! Turn!

To everything - turn, turn, turnhttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-28_10-38-54-1.png
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep

To everything - turn, turn, turn
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to build up, a time to break down
A time to dance, a time to mourn
A time to cast away stones
A time to gather stones together

To everything - turn, turn, turnhttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-01-28_10-43-36-1.png
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time of war, a time of peace
A time of love, a time of hate
A time you may embrace
A time to refrain from embracing

To everything - turn, turn, turn
There is a season - turn, turn, turn
And a time for every purpose under heaven

A time to gain, a time to lose
A time to rend, a time to sew
A time to love, a time to hate
A time of peace, I swear it's not too late!

- Pete Seeger (1919-2014)

[Larry Robinson]

The Singer & His Banjo
for Pete Seeger




How can I keep from singing?
he asked hefting his banjo,
machine he claimed
surrounded hate
and forced it to surrender.
We sang with him
that we would overcome
(someday),
asked where
had all the flowers gone,
& as we marched imagined
all sorts of things
to do if we had a hammer.

Gone the way of flowers now,
the old comrade leaves us
to our singing, our marching
with our little hammers
to bring down citadels of injustice,
our teaspoons to weight and make
the see-saw of power teeter
our way, overcome the demons
and armies of cold angels,
and keep despair at bay.




- Rafael Jesús González

[Larry Robinson]

Becoming A Redwood


Stand in a field long enough, and the sounds
start up again. The crickets, the invisible
toad who claims that change is possible,

And all the other life too small to name.
First one, then another, until innumerable
they merge into the single voice of a summer hill.

Yes, it’s hard to stand still, hour after hour,
fixed as a fencepost, hearing the steers
snort in the dark pasture, smelling the manure.

And paralyzed by the mystery of how a stone
can bear to be a stone, the pain
the grass endures breaking through the earth’s crust.

Unimaginable the redwoods on the far hill,
rooted for centuries, the living wood grown tall
and thickened with a hundred thousand days of light.

The old windmill creaks in perfect time
to the wind shaking the miles of pasture grass,
and the last farmhouse light goes off.

Something moves nearby. Coyotes hunt
these hills and packs of feral dogs.
But standing here at night accepts all that.

You are your own pale shadow in the quarter moon,
moving more slowly than the crippled stars,
part of the moonlight as the moonlight falls,

Part of the grass that answers the wind,
part of the midnight’s watchfulness that knows
there is no silence but when danger comes.


- Dana Gioia

[Larry Robinson]

<tbody>
Mexican Jenny





1.
Girls like me
come from alleys
from dirt floors
from cold kitchens
from one thin blanket.
Girls like me
come from fists
from passing strangers
from wandering fathers
from mothers with one heel
hooked on the bar stool.
Girls like me
come from drought
from war.

2.
When I was a child in Acapulco
I worked for a rich family
sweeping their kitchen
washing their dishes.
One day, after a few nips, the cook,
who was my mother's friend,
had said, Come, work for me
in the big house.
I stood on a wooden box
washed dishes stamped with indigo
trees and flowers, with birds
like none I'd seen.
I stood elbow
deep in dirty water, dreamed
of far places without greasy pans
nor the boss's wandering hands.

3.
The boss's wife had a red
silk shawl embroidered
with many-colored swallows.
She draped it like a flag on the back of her chair.
It had come on a ship from Manila,
from that land of ship builders and sailors,
of travelers who, years before, brought
Chinese porcelain and silk to Acapulco.
Every time I walked by
I fingered its edges
and felt like I was dipping my fingers
into the tide.
After I'd found the fault lines
in one cup too many,
when I'd daydreamed one
dish too many to pieces,
the cook ran me off,
but not before I'd pinched that shawl,
wrapped it around my waist
under my dirty skirt.
Running home
the silk rubbed
my legs,
a river current.




</tbody>
- Barbara Brinson Curiel

[Larry Robinson]

Keats


When Keats, at last beyond the curtain
of love’s distraction, lay dying in his room
on the Piazza di Spagna, the melody of the Bernini
Fountain “filling him like flowers,”
he held his breath like a coin, looked out
into the moonlight and thought he saw snow.
He did not suppose it was fever or the body’s
weakness turning the mind. He thought, “England!”
and there he was, secretly, for the rest
of his improvidently short life: up to his neck
in sleigh bells and the impossibly English cries
of street vendors, perfect
and affectionate as his soul.
For days the snow and statuary sang him so far
beyond regret that if now you walk rancorless
and alone there, in the piazza, the white shadow
of his last words to Severn, “Don’t be frightened,”
may enter you.


- Christopher Howell

[Mike Patterson]

Hi there -

I am a student of Jennifer Welwood's and this is actually her poem, not "Joyce Wellwood". Can you please change the attribution so it reads "Jennifer Welwood", format the poem correctly to match this formatting and create a link here: https://jenniferwelwood.com/poetry/the-dakini-speaks/

Thank you in advance, much appreciated.


The Dakini Speaks

My friends,...
- Joyce Wellwood

[Larry Robinson]

On Hearing a Poem Recited, Not Read*

The poem flew at me
Little darts, pricking my skin
piercing my belly, my arms, my eyes
Flew at me on swift, black wings
trailing a smoky blur past my ears
Flew all around me
furious, then curiously quiet

No words sounded like words
read from a page
They had been lifted
the night before, years before
Flipped up, one by one
letter by letter let fall
on the tongue and dissolved
like melting snowflakes trickling down
through the heart, into the belly
to the toes, the fingertips
Pulled back through the blood
through the brain
down into the back of the throat
into the cheeks and spit out
Little darts of words
big wings of words
charging the air all around me
There were no words, only language
Tongue moved by muscle and blood

The poem entered me and exited
leaving little points of pain and light
soft feathery strokes on my skin and hair
Leaving me empty of words

- Christine Walker


*For those of you who appreciate hearing poems recited, not read, you will love tonight's Poetry Out Loud event at Santa Rosa's Glaser Center. Students from 11 high schools will compete in poetry recitation to see who will represent Sonoma County at the state level. This free event begins at 7:00 PM and is an absolute delight.

[Shandi]

Mike, thank you for this very important correction! Knowing the truth of where the creativity came from led me on a curious journey to Jennifer Welwood's work, which I otherwise wouldn't have had the privilege of seeing. Getting one name wrong is one thing, but getting both wrong are a huge, serious and unintened error probably made in haste.


Hi there -

I am a student of Jennifer Welwood's and this is actually her poem, not "Joyce Wellwood". Can you please change the attribution so it reads "Jennifer Welwood", format the poem correctly to match this formatting and create a link here: https://jenniferwelwood.com/poetry/the-dakini-speaks/

Thank you in advance, much appreciated.

[Shandi]

https://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-02-03_14-57-51.pngI encourage Wacco members to take a look at Jennifer's website, especially her writing about her work with a couple who were relating to each other from "conditioned" identities, and the outcome of working with them. I noticed that her upcoming March retreat is already full. This says a lot in a world where many people are hard pressed to fill a workshop, even when offering a sliding scale, or a discount for early registration. She does neither, and the price for the 5 days starts in the range of $900-$1000.

This leads me to believe she may have a valuable mentor or coach. I don't know for sure. But it seems that her work is valued by many. I'm glad that Larry made a mistake in her name, and that Mike corrected it, otherwise I wouldn't have known about her at all. Thanks to both of you!

https://www.jenniferwelwood.com/

[Larry Robinson]

The Waking


I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. https://img2u.info/ckgni/i/gddc01eb1.jpg
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.

We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me; so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.
- Theodore Roethke

[Larry Robinson]

What is the Deep Listening

What is the deep listening?https://www.vaknlp.com/improve-listening-skills.gif
Sama is a greeting from the secret ones inside the heart - a letter
The branches of your intelligence grow new leaves in the wind of this listening.
The body reaches a peace.

Rooster sound comes reminding you of your love of dawn
The reed flute and the singer's lips
The knack of how spirit breathes into us
becomes as simple and ordinary as eating and drinking.

The dead rise with the pleasure of listenting.
If someone cannot hear a trumpet melody,
sprinkle dirt on his head and delare him dead.

Listen and feel the beauty of your separation
the unsayable absence
There is a moon inside every human being
Learn to be companions with it.
Give more of your life to this listening.

As brightness is to time,
so you are to the one who talks to the deep ear in your chest

I should sell my tongue
and buy a thousand ears when that one steps near and begins to speak

I should sell my tongue and buy a thousand ears
when that one steps near.


- Jelalludin Rumi
(translated by Coleman Barks)

[Larry Robinson]

Watching


Clouds, of course, are the greatest
things in the world: cumulus, cirrus,
nimbus, you name it. How they
arrive out of nowhere it seems, coast


across the sky's scrim, some thin and
wispy as milkweed seed, some
seemingly stuffed with down, great
pillows for God's huge and heavy head.


These are, of course, the benevolent ones.
Even at night we know they are passing
silently above us as if some kindly
neighbor has come out in the cold to pull


the comforter up to our chin. Of course,
there are the grays, carriers of uncertainty:
holding perhaps rain or sleet, snow or hail,
or not a drop of anything at all. We can


never know. Then, of course, the dark and
bleak lugging a foreboding storm, clouds
that send us under cover, into resigned and
listless listening to the chaos on the roof,


the slash across the car's front window,
wipers all but useless against the tipping
of some cosmic water barrel. But then again,
of course, no matter what the cause, what


the effect we just might see in any cloud--
eerie dark, marshmallow white, erasure
gray-an old man's hat, a Conestoga wagon,
face of Aunt Louise, a smiling hippopotamus.
- Jack Ridl

[Dixon]

And for West County residents, the poem won't be complete without this stanza:

Then there are the malevolent ones,
delivering Fukushima's radiant kiss,
and factory-fresh chemical rain or snow,
as spreading chemtrails cross out the sky.
:satire:




Watching

Clouds, of course, are the greatest
things in the world: cumulus, cirrus,
nimbus, you name it. How they
arrive out of nowhere it seems, coast


across the sky's scrim, some thin and
wispy as milkweed seed, some
seemingly stuffed with down, great
pillows for God's huge and heavy head.


These are, of course, the benevolent ones.
Even at night we know they are passing
silently above us as if some kindly
neighbor has come out in the cold to pull


the comforter up to our chin. Of course,
there are the grays, carriers of uncertainty:
holding perhaps rain or sleet, snow or hail,
or not a drop of anything at all. We can


never know. Then, of course, the dark and
bleak lugging a foreboding storm, clouds
that send us under cover, into resigned and
listless listening to the chaos on the roof,


the slash across the car's front window,
wipers all but useless against the tipping
of some cosmic water barrel. But then again,
of course, no matter what the cause, what


the effect we just might see in any cloud--
eerie dark, marshmallow white, erasure
gray-an old man's hat, a Conestoga wagon,
face of Aunt Louise, a smiling hippopotamus.
- Jack Ridl

[Larry Robinson]

ARTICLES OF FAITH




Faith is a priceless treasure which some would invest in money and power, seeking private gain. Others of us invest in a vision of a world which may yet come to be: a world of justice, peace and beauty. We place our faith in life itself.


We Believe


Life is infinitely creative, resourceful, reliable and ultimately good.


Human beings are an expression of that life force and, as such, are creative, resourceful, reliable and fundamentally good.


All life is inextricably connected - what happens to any of us happens to all of us.


Evil exists as a potential in all human beings and it derives from the illusion that we are separate from each other and from the fountain of life.


Evil cannot be vanquished by force of arms or by fear. It can only be conquered by love.


In the power of love and direct non-violent action to
transform institutions, social systems and the human heart.


The arc of human history moves toward democracy, justice and an appreciation for our wondrous multiplicity of expression.


It is the right of all people to enjoy life, liberty and the security of person; to be treated equally under the law; to enjoy freedom of thought, conscience and religion; to free expression and association; to have free access to clean water and air.


It is possible for all human beings to be free from economic want and poverty and to live with dignity.


Peace among and within nations is only possible when these rights are assured to everyone.


The most fundamental responsibility of government is to ensure the health and well-being of the land and of all its inhabitants.


Individual rights must be balanced with responsibility for the well-being of the community.


The success and survival of our civilization and, possibly, that of the human race are in increasing jeopardy because of our commitment to an unsustainable pattern of resource consumption, particularly our dependence upon fossil fuels.


While our planet’s physical resources are finite, the resources of love and imagination are without end.


It is indeed possible to create a society which lives sustainably and harmoniously within the parameters of our planetary life support systems.


We have a responsibility to live in such a way that we do not diminish the opportunity for future generations to enjoy the same quality of life which we enjoy.


A human birth is a precious gift that is accompanied by a responsibility to act with generosity, sensitivity and compassion for all living beings.


In doing our best to leave a better world for our children.


All people, individually and collectively, are capable of learning from their mistakes.


Life inherently includes suffering, but we have a responsibility as members of the human family to do what we can to ease that suffering and to structure our social institutions in such a way as to minimize unnecessary suffering due to poverty, disease, war, injustice and environmental degradation.


Joy is also an inherent feature of life and it is possible to participate joyfully in the suffering of the world.


Each and every life has inherent value and is worthy of respect.


In poetry, art, music, dancing and the spirit of play.


In the power of truth.


At the heart of all things is an ineffable mystery worthy of awe and wonder.


It is this faith which informs, guides and sustains our work in the world.


- Larry Robinson

[Larry Robinson]

On The Bank


He was sitting by the river, among reedshttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-02-07_14-00-10.png
that peasants had been scything for their thatch.
And it was quiet there, and in his soul
it was quieter and stiller still.
He kicked off his boots and put
his feet into the water, and the water
began talking to him, not knowing
he didn’t know its language.
He had thought that water is deaf-mute,
that the home of sleepy fish is without words,
that blue dragonflies hover over the water
and catch mosquitoes or horseflies,
that you wash if you want to wash, and drink
if you want to drink, and that’s all there is
to water. But in all truth
the water’s language was a wonder,
a story of some kind about some thing,
some unchanging thing that seemed
like starlight, like the swift flash of mica,
like a divination of disaster.
And in it was something from childhood,
from not being used to counting life in years,
from what is nameless
and comes at night before you dream,
from the terrible, vegetable
sense of self
of your first season.


That’s how the water was that day,
and its speech was without rhyme or reason.


- Arseny Tarkovsky
(translated from the Russian by Robert Chandler)

[Larry Robinson]

The Lesson Of Poverty




Last night my teacher taught me the lesson of poverty,
having nothing and wanting nothing.


I am a naked man standing inside a mine of rubies,
clothed in red silk.
I absorb the shining and now I see the ocean,
billions of simultaneous motions
moving in me.
A circle of lovely, quiet people
becomes the ring on my finger.


The the wind and the thunder of rain on the way.
I have such a teacher.


- Jelalludin Rumi
(Version by Coleman Barks)

[Larry Robinson]

The Word


We ride up softly to the hiddenhttps://www.waccobb.net/forums/waccobb/keep90days/2014-02-09_14-46-54.png
oval in the woods, a plateau rimmed
with wavy stands of gray birch and white pine,
my horse thinking his thoughts, happy
in the October dapple, and I thinking
mine-and-his, which is my prerogative,


both of us just in time to see a big doe
loft up over the four-foot fence, her white scut
catching the sun and then releasing it,
soundlessly clapping our reveries shut.
The pine grove shudders as she passes.
The red squirrels thrill, announcing her departure.


Come back! I want to call to her,
we mean you no harm. Come back and show us
who stand pinned in stopped time to the track
how you can go from a standing start
up and over. We on our side, pulses racing,
are synchronized with you racing heart.


I want to tell her, Watch me
mornings when I fill the cylinders
with sunflower seeds, see how the chickadees
and lesser redbreasted nuthatches crowd
onto my arm, permitting me briefly
to stand in for a tree,


and how the vixen in the bottom meadow
I ride across allows me under cover
of horse scent to observe the education
of her kits, how they dive for the burrow
on command, how they re-emerge at another
word she uses, a word I am searching for.


- Maxine Kumin
(1925-2014)