6-5

The light is indescribable tonight ,

Ephemeral, so sharp and mystical

Like some enchanted, distant fairy land

Which eyes of men have never danced upon.

And was it you who kissed me as I slept

Beneath the aspen trees and diamond stars?

I thought it was, but could have been the wind

That brushed against my cheek so subtly,

With such perfection that I wonder now

If ever I will feel that chill again.

I cannot say I’ll ever look inside

That mind of yours to see the games it plays,

The love it feels, illusion it puts on

Or what you’re really thinking through the day.

Is it a shame, that you I’ll never know

With utter and complete sincerity?

The mask you wear is lovely, my dear girl

Although what lies beneath it, covered up,

Cut off from all exposure to the world,

And full of hate, and fear, and lust, and love

Perplexes me, and causes me to toss

And turn about when lying in my bed,

To sweat and shake with evil, twisting knots

Inside my gut that ache and will not go.

So where am I to go, and what to do?

Because in honesty, there’s not a thing

That outwardly would seem a cunning ploy

Aimed at deceiving me. So I’ll just stay

And let the ceaseless chatter of my mind

Continue torturing me, and you won’t know

No, you won’t ever know

The way it feels to be

Helpless against the flow

Of your cold destiny.

And every word

And little phrase

 That I have heard

These past few days

Has lacked that passion you once had

As if my love were just a fad

That faded like an autumn leaf

And died under the snow of grief

And now your springtime’s come, with new

And budding blossoms coming through

Reminding you of how it feels to be

Alive and free, when you’re not next to me.

I feel as if it’s all just one big test;

I love to live, but cannot stand the rest.

Crickets in Summer

It’s all just such a struggle – writing verse,

Explaining consciousness,

and unrequited love.

I need a break from all the questions! Time

To smell the evening – damp air and the breeze,

And hear the crickets tease me with their song

Of joy, and restful high activity

Why We Practice Dharma

We practice dharma because we think the feeling
Of longing for a past lover is real,
Or because of the overwhelming dullness
Of sitting around an artificial bonfire –
Gas sprayed up among plastic logs like
Some unholy semen –
And watch those still glued to the receiver,
Doing everything they can to escape
Get away from being here, only to
Catch a fleeting glimpse of some
Cloudy, intoxicated bliss.

 I sometime lament the fact that
Everyone acts more like a Buddha after
A few shots. What if we could be that loving all the time?
That’s why we practice dharma.

Those moments when your stomach twists into
Frightening knots, emotions seeming real
Like fire, or ice, and all that will pull us through
Is the mind, and faith in the great masters of the lineage.
Glory to the wondrous Shangpa!
 Praise to the wise Zen sages!
It’s all one.
Dharma.
Neuroplasticity!


Dripping, bloody red clouds at sunset,
And distant blue mountain peaks calling
In the distance, like some Indian flute
Carried by the autumn breeze.
 Flowering blossoms of spring!
Apricots! Cherries! You flower
Of yourself!
Nothing to ask for,
Nothing to wait for.
Just a flowing,
An easeful drift into glory, blooming into petals
That contain the entire essence of the doctrine.

Oh! We practice dharma because nature constantly
Bombards us with its message, like Helen
With her breasts bared standing clear in our view
Only we fail to notice. Such a beautiful sight.
We practice dharma because of those moments
Where compassion comes welling up inside our chests
Like warm honey, or freshly brewed coffee in the crisp
Morning air of Abiquiu. In both the best and the worst moments,
Which both ultimately are without self-identity,
Dharma is there,
Shining the light of Ultimate Truth,
Supreme comfort,
And draping the feeling of a flowery meadow
Under the blue summer sky
Onto our hardened skins
At any time.

Shangpa Teachings -- II

I have often seen the Buddha in a pine tree,
And the energy of the entire universe
 In the golden light of the sunset upon the hills.
Twisted branches against the sky,
 And dry stream beds in the desert.
Such suchnesses contain all the secret teachings of the great traditions.
Like hearing a chorus of birds in the early morning air.

Those who would call themselves touched by Grace
Put legs on a snake.
For I have it,
And you’ve got it
And so does that lichen covered granite.
It’s sad to see so many
Still glued to the phone,
Hearing the message repeated
Until it becomes meaningless.

I’d take this view of the sunset over an iPhone any day,
The patterns in the cracked mud to any laptop you might throw at me,
And these pink clouds to any television.
Blessed are they who crave,
For they will come to life.
Blessed are those who test us,
And those who help us.
 Blessed are our mothers.
Blessed is a cup of tea with a friend,
Blessed are thou.
Blessed are the pine cones
And verse
And vibration
And music and
I and I.
That which runs through all things is all things.
Unity. Bliss.

Blessings of Shangpa

Transcend attachment to form.
Transform attachment to expectation.
Be still.
Let the air fall in and out of your lungs.
Watch the evening light play against the pine needles.
Chant a mantra that feels right.
 See the patterns of a veiny leaf.
Why am I writing that which cannot be put into words?
Let the moon smile down on you.
Count your shadow as your friend.
What are the spines on the cactus of yourself?
Let all sounds be music.
Disregard all these instructions.
 Let the wind soothe you, And the birds proclaim your ecstasy.
Feel the flow of all things.
Where were you while chanting?
Let the mantra chant you, but be here.
See how small things really get,
And from the top of the hill,
Reassess.
Realize that every tree is as good as the next,
Every view as meaningful as the last.
Every breath, a super nova.
Make what movements you wish,
What noises you will,
And don’t judge.
It’s harder that you think
Because if it’s done right,
You aren’t making any of them.
If you get cold, relax into it.
Make life like a dance,
Or the last five minutes of a middle school dance –
Blissful, content, having taken the step.
Where to next?
 Does the smoke from a campfire ask that?
Why should you?
Burn this paper.
Follow this paper.
Choose what you like and disregard the rest.
We’re blessed to breathe
And see a blade of grass jive in the wind.
Now, please.
Let it be.
Everything is perfect, just the way it is.

In A Very Nice Way

The world is vast and free,

Open blue skies without end,

Girls with tans,

Girls who love Buddhism,

And green tea in the afternoon.

Hung hung phe! La

Rock formations like meat of the earth,

Twisting, chunky, solid, OM.

The movement of trees in the breeze

In the garden at the stupa, and

Birds singing in the fresh, cool morning air. AH

Prostrations and prayers, sore knees and hips

And late nights drinking sake with young girls

So eager, so vicious, but in a very nice way,

And Linda on the phone. HUNG

This is it!

That was that!

Distant hilltops are in the heart,

And waves lapping on the shore are of the mind.

Streets full of grime and dust, beggars and filth

And steam rising out of grates,

OM MANI PADME HUNG.

I saw a woman on a bench today,

In deep anguish, and she smiled and greeted me,

But some lady with sickeningly-fake dyed red haired

Shunned me, and offered not a glance or a word.

Chenrezig, Tara, and Manjushri flew out my window

In Cochiti Pueblo, to help sentient beings la.

Dan, great bodhisattva that he is, tried to grab them,

But the wind was stronger, and I snapped “LET THEM GO!”

In a very nice way.

Don Juan had great siddhis, but Castaneda was a flop,

Turned out like Raschel,

 OM MANI PADME HUNG, or better yet,

OM BENZA MAHAKALA CHING CHETRA BIGANEN BINAYAKA HUNG HUNG PHE!

Stan is the master of Mahakala,

And another Stan knows the restaurant business,

But for God knows what reason, “I’m movin’ to Ukiah, Sean.”

Thanks to the glorious SHANGPA!

Basketball on the court in the backyard,

Unvisited for years, the orange, coarse ball

Not filled with air since 3^rd grade still bouncing,

Dan and I dunking, laughing, shooting, playing

Like stars or water bugs.

I cherish the weathered bookmark Aaron gave me,

With Lama Gendun’s vajra song. I cherish

My loving Jewish Mother, “she’s practically

A caricature,” and the brilliance of SFI.

Free will and quark-discoverers in tweed coats,

Encyclopedia of Prehistory and practicing my

“Hi Laura” in the car.

WATTS! Part three la!

I dreamt of Mexican ballerina-princesses,

Is it ok?
I’m a little “out there”, but so are you

With your obsession with the future
as something to be feared.

What is normal? I haven’t met Him.

It’s said that an enlightened being

will come to see that one thing is

As good as another.

A long thing

Is the long body of Buddha

And a short thing

Is the short body of Buddha.

The Italian and them were fun,

 And we even had a short practice,

And chanted OM LOKAH SAVATSAH SUKHINO BHAVANTU;

Dharma’s to be found in the funniest of places,

In the most unlikely of forms.

Amma is a great bodhisattva.

Remember that woman at the stupa,

And Fred singing la?

Where to next?

Chicago?

Brown?

Beloit?

One thing is as good as another.

Just different.

^ that’s how Dan put it.

Wise One.

Air is bliss.

Fire is bliss.

Dried pineapple is bliss.

Push-ups are bliss.

La la

Hung hung

Phe!

You’ll find me at the Home of the Blues,

But in a very nice way.

Nice song

Three Sonnets

I.
The heights of Atalaya seem so far
Away from this cold room in which I sit,
Like some elusive, twinkling northern star
Beneath whose distant, silver light I’m lit.
I’m stuck within this box, four white-washed walls
Which I have found the nerve to call my home,
But the enchantment of the mountains calls
And bids me leave my room, and start to roam
Across the ponderosa dotted slopes
And over hidden outcroppings of rock,
In search of nature’s wonders. ‘Tis my hope
To leave these walls, and take off on a walk!
 But I must sit here, gloomy in my room
Just like an age-old corpse, stuck in his tomb.

II.
The stars are shining brightly overhead,
Our neighbors in the cosmos, I might add.
There are some men who feel a sense of dread
To look on them; to me it is quite mad!
The light that reaches my eye here tonight
Is millions, even billions of years old –
These unimaginable lengths could cause one fright,
The thought of drifting through the empty cold.
 Fear not, my friends! For you are like the stars,
 A single point in boundless empty space,
You are the Universe as much as Mars,
Just doing what you’re doing, with such grace!
We’re just like shooting stars that soon will fade,
But that’s the very point – don’t feel dismayed!

 III.
The tumbling of the creek is such a joy,
To sit and ponder on a mountain stroll,
My love for it will surely never cloy,
Not while it maintains such a pleasant roll
And tumble, over rocks and fallen sticks,
Progressing through this wooded canyon. I
Will sit and ask it dharma questions which
It answers more profoundly than the sly
And clever answers that I hear from men,
Who fumble with creations known as words
When trying to speak the true essence of Zen,
More eloquently spoken by the birds.
To hear the teaching of a mossy stone,
Will open up the depths of the unknown.

1133

The blank page has become an enemy,
Such a long absence has there been between
My busy, fledging mind and its bare skin,
Its mighty power held in nothingness.
The chance to scribble any verse or phrase
 Lies in my fingers, and its pulpy veins.

 Oh emotions! Upwellings of my soul!
What are you? From whence have you sprung?
If I am what I perceive that I am,
Which I have full confidence in,
And that is one miniscule and bumbling
Arrogant manifestation of Man,
Placed here among these hills, inside these
White and sickening walls, beneath the pale
And toxic florescent light, alone in my bedroom
As the night grows young, and the stars
One by one
Peek their silvery crowns forth from
Beneath the sea of murky jet,
So many millions of light years away,
What are my emotions to cause me
Such distress?

The scent of freshly dampened sage is lovely,
There’s little more pleasing to my nostrils
Than this fresh and wild smell. The first
Rain of spring fell today, and I opened
 My car windows to smell it
But the water got in and clung to the leather interior.
I sip on cold green tea, and
Hear the sound of my nervous
Fingers picking away at one another.
I love to live, but cannot stand the rest.

Oh, what is worse than a man with
Too much time to think? Tell me,
Who is more miserable?
What is more dangerous: the knife
In its sheath, the knife in a dead man’s
Throat, or the mind of a child?
Why such anger? Why such hate?
Why such clouding of the mind?
I’m reminded by other individuals,
But I speak of myself. I’ve been taught
How to dissect a frog, the planets,
Which compounds are soluble in water
At 25° C, and how I can make gold appear
From the combination of two clear liquids –
Isn’t that the philosopher’s stone – but
Nobody taught me to look inside, to know
Myself before I tried to understand others,
To clear my mind before analyzing that
Of a friend.

I’ve driven down these same roads
For years, under the same azure sky
And choked on the same dirt which
Fills the air, and everything. That’s why
We’ve all been waiting for rain. We
Didn’t dance until afterward, though.
Why do some men dance in anticipation
And others in appreciation? Why does
dust accumulate on all my things?
Why can’t I just fall into the fractal
Of the universe, and spend an eon
In exploration, before being plopped
Back in my dusty, crowded room,
And starting the mundane routine
Once again?

Why is it so easy to recognize our
Faults in others but ignore them
In ourselves? What is a man who
Cannot acknowledge his inspiration?
 Keats! Wordsworth! Neruda!
And what is a man who pays
Too much homage?

I met a woman in the mall
The day I broke things off
With my girlfriend. She sold
Me posters of blue Hindu gods
Wrapped in leopard’s skin,
 And phallic rocks which lay
Between the santos and the
Crystals, and I thanked her!
We wear chemicals to mask
The scent of our own bodies
Which we have learned to hate.
If this weren’t in verse form,
Would it be considered an
Unhealthy, psychotic rant?

 I’ve written myself onto the page
 By tapping keys,
And all is well.

W.S. Merwin and Hadrian's Poem

 A few weeks ago I had the wonderful oppourtunity to see the wise poet W.S. Merwin speak and read some of his poetry. He closed by reading his translation of the Roman Emperor Hadrian's poem "Little Soul" which was so striking and haunting that the rush of mysticism and beauty his reading of it transfered to me lasts to this moment.
I've included Merwin's notes about the poem, his translation, and a link to a video of him reading it:

"It must have been at some time during my years at the university that I first encountered this brief, mysterious poem. It is ascribed to the Emperor Hadrian (76–138 AD) without any scholarly question that I know of, but it has always seemed surprising to me that a poem so assured in its art, so flawless and so haunting, could have been the only one he ever wrote. Perhaps he wrote poems all his life and this was the only one that was saved, or this one alone was unforgettable."

Little Soul

By Hadrian

Translated By W.S. Merwin

Little soul little stray 

little drifter

now where will you stay

all pale and all alone

after the way

you used to make fun of things.

Start at 30:35

If All I Had to Do Today was Write

If all I had to do today was write
About the interesting things I saw,
 The hilly, mountain views that filled my sight,
 I’d kiss my city-life and say au revoir.
If I could lay beneath the azure sky
And think of dialogues and poetry,
And watch the setting sun with blissful eye,
I think that then my spirit could run free.
Sometimes I think of lounging by a stream,
Aside a rocky, tumbling waterfall –
That I were there! and this were not a dream,
That sitting in my bedroom I recall,
 I’d still be sunk beneath the shady firs,
Living the life a man of thought prefers.

A Curious Incident in India

It was hotter than usual in Delhi and we were thirsty. Rajah and I had been dispatched along with his uncle, Ashish, to procure some cold drinks to pacify the heat. We drove through the streets of I-Block, past beautiful Indian girls wrapped in scarlet saris, vendors selling skinny peeled cucumbers, and broom sellers on bicycles with vibrantly colored plastic dusters surrounding them like a plume. Soon, we arrive at the local market. I saw a Coke refrigerator out the corner of my eye as we pulled up.
“Okay boys, here is some money.” Ashish violently went through his pockets looking for a few rupees for the cold drinks. We crawled out of the maroon minivan and into the Delhi heat.
I looked back and saw Ashish, face staring intensely forward, “we will get cold drink, and then return to the house. Then, we will drink them and return to work.” Patti, Rajah and I were photographing for Ashish’s current project – writing a book about the common man of India, “aam admi” or mango people in Hindi. Ashish is elderly and suffers from bad health, especially in the lungs, but is an extremely hard worker nevertheless and he led us to numerous y different locations each day to take someone’s photograph: cobbler’s, fish sellers, garland makers to name a few.
But, now was one of our rest periods, which were spent in Ashish’s living room sipping tea and talking about any number of things with Ashish and Manju, his wife. She is a wise soul. And loving soul. Warm energy radiates through her embrace. Her knowledge of eastern religious ad philosophical beliefs is immense and fascinating to hear of speak of. Today’s toasty rest time called for cold drinks, which brings us back to the market.
 The market consisted of shops of every kind, selling books, food, and things I couldn’t identify. Rajah and I ambled past a few middle aged Indian men who looked at us with that indescribable look which showed were clearly foreigners. (It isn’t as strongly pronounced as in China in Delhi.)We reached the stall and began selecting drinks: the only two Cokes they had, Thums Up (India’s cola), and mango drink (as Ashish called it). We set them on the window sill.
“Hello” the fellow manning the stall said, quickly and with that peaceful aggressiveness many Indians exhibit. He noted each of the drinks. “Three hundred, fifty.”
 Rajah handed him the money. “Where are you from” he asked as he started to bag the drinks.
“United States” Rajah and I said nearly in unison.
 “You are from, Kentucky?” He motioned to my fedora. I wonder if that ever happened to Indiana Jones in India. Someone mistook him for a Kentucian.
“No, New Mexico” Rajah said, taking the drinks.
“Albuquerque?” the clerk responded nonchalantly. Rajah and I immediately exchanged looks, both wide eyed at the fact that this man, at a market in New Delhi , knew the name of a city in our state.
“No, we live in Santa Fe.” Rajah said.
The response was one widely practiced by those for whom English is a second language. “Oh,” he began, staring forward with a slight look of confusion on his face. “Santa Fe.”
 “The reason I asked is because my brother is currently in Albuquerque. He is working with Intel.”
The two of us responded with some phrase to show excitement, the silly things Americans say like “cool,” “Awesome,” or “wow.” We chatted with the shop keeper some moments longer, the conversation not progressing must past the point that he has a brother living in our state, so we thanked him and walked back to the minivan. We were eager to the share the story with Ashish.
How unlikely that Rajah and I should meet someone, randomly, in the backstreets of New Delhi, whose brother lived sixty miles away from our home. This helped me start to develop my attitude of not be surprised by what are called coincidences.

La Bajada

A group of cow bones lies perched on a rock downhill from where I sit. The beast has perished, all that remains of it sitting in a pile before my eyes – white, dry, cracking, bleached, dead. Yet the carvings at my feet are full of energy, life, immortality. On all sides of me are full figures – some with antennae, all that ever-watching look. The petroglyphs' lure, awe endured centuries since Spaniards and Mexicans passed on the Camino Real above me and mocassined Puebloans trotted on the scorching volcanic rocks before them. Fields stretch before me for miles, seemingly empty, barren, dull. But were I to be sitting there, countless wonders and other miniscule phenomena would greet me, just as I observe holes in the rock here – bubbles within lava which millions of years ago flowed down this very hill side, – the positioning of cholla on the purple rock, cacti with freshly ripe fruit – a sweet desert indulgence to nourish me on this blistering day. Here, the land is dry far beyond comfort and survival, yet below flows an acequia, and further the Santa Fe River.

La Bajada and Sun

There are moments in nature that will never leave my mind. They are too numerous, and too intangible to be worthily described on paper, but I will attempt to do so for the reader’s sake. It was a day late in summer, and I set out for the small town of La Bajada, its inhabitants old Hispanic families who still subsist on farming and share land with Cochiti Pueblo. I knew the location of large and detailed petroglyphs – a body with two heads, a kokopelli smoking a peace pipe, alien-like figures with antennae protruding from the head – and determined to find them after a year’s absence from visiting the spot. I hiked up the old Camino Real, heat flooding over me, the ground dusty. I found the glyphs, chipped away centuries ago on the purple, pocked lava rock but for what reason. Were these figures ceremonial, sacred sites where shamen transgressed planes of existence, or just graffiti sprawled on the rock by teenagers? With these questions in mind, I sat down to observe the dirt gathered in a ping-pong ball sized hole in the rock –over how many years had it collected? That hole was once an air bubble in the hissing molten lava, in some unimaginable time when Tetilla Peak above me was erupting. An assortment of sun bleached cow bones were perched on rock downhill from me, unmoved from the last time I visited this site, a reminder of my mortality and the immortality of these images carved into the rock. I gazed out over the open golden fields which stretched out to the horizon. How many wonders would I find myself faced with if I sat beneath a distant tree in that field, I wondered. Looking up, two hawks circled over my head, lofty-winged and majestic, gliding through the air with the chaotic harmony of flight. They circled lower and lower, before one swooped down and passed feet above my head. What did he think of me? A meal? Just another animal? I closed my eyes and sat crossed legged to meditate on that spot, hear the inner mumblings of my person which are so often shut down and ignored in the rational society of today. This was just one moment of wonder and discovery which nature has provided me with, teaching me above all humility. Within any square foot, I can observe an infinite amount of things – pine needles, cones, dirt, decomposing leaves, twigs, rocks – just as I can do some on a larger scale. Sitting on my favorite rock of Sun Mountain, perched close below the summit on the west face, I can see my school, buildings no bigger than the nail on my pinky finger. The horizon is the Jemez Mountains, where I have spent days exploring slot canyons, hiking along rivers, and soaking in hot springs, all vivid memories in my mind and important to me yet from this place invisible. I see the city of Santa Fe, each individual house the dwelling of an individual, each with his or her own story, life views, perceptions, noble actions and inner evils. Just as there is an endless amount I can study in a square foot, so is there the same amount I can see looking over an entire city. The scale can quickly recede. I go from a single grain of dust at my feet, to the rock resting atop it, to the larger rock I’m sitting on, to the larger rock which is this mountain, to the city of Santa Fe, to the state of New Mexico, country of United Sates of America, American continent, planet (merely another large rock,) Milky Way, solar system, to that incomprehensible thing called the universe. How many others at this moment share my thoughts? Others in this state? On this planet? In our universe? In others? With such thoughts, comes a humility. I am small. This world is, on a cosmic scale, small. The problems and worries of the day are truly nothing.

Area Between Sun and Moon Mountain

I have come to what is quite possibly the most beautiful place that ever was. The sun shines hot around me, but I’ve found the shade of a ponderosa, the only of its kind among hundreds of piñons, its vanilla scented bark wafting through the air on a cool, whispering mountain breeze. My companions are the birds, piñon jays, squawking in contempt, and broad-winged crows soaring high in the palette blue sky – black against the pure, celestial blue. My rock is flat and covered with lichen, clinging to an existence on this granite stone, nourished by sun and rock – no more and no less. Why are humans fascinated by such a phenomenon? Why shouldn’t the lichen subsist on merely heavenly rays and granite? Because our species cannot? We come from the same explosion of life as the lichen – pale green, gray, cracking and dry. We are relatives. The songs and calls of birds give me confidence in nature’s longevity, just as the lichen-mottled rock does, the yucca which has spring forth from dry, powdery, dusty ground.
These things are miracles just as I myself am. My existence is no more than a combination of chemicals, healthy parents, all my ancestors having survived – none of them having succumbed to disease, drowning, or warfare – the age old plague of mankind. All the way back to Sumeria – and further to some archaic African valley –my ancestors have lived and given me life. Perhaps more of a miracle than the desert moss. Yet it has whittled survival to the barest essentials while here I sit, clothed and wearing shoes, immunized against disease, writing on paper processed and created in a factory, cell phone resting on this ancient rock upon which I sit.
A brilliant, royally azure jay scampers through the branches of my shady sentinel. We exchanged glances, two life forms on one planet floating through space, and he flew off to continue his existence. I hear a pecker tapping at the ponderosa’s bark. Perhaps he too is enticed by its sweet smell. Oden’s crows are circling overhead, stoic above the constant screeching of the jays. Here some desert grasses are growing through a crack between rocks, the blade’s bases holding onto the last exuberance of green – life – which has long faded from the desiccated tops. Behind me are two mountains named by man Sun and Moon – mountains I’ve climbed innumerable times with shameless comraddes to discuss “the inexhaustible variety of life.” Some men have chosen to build their dwellings at the base of these hills, erect property fences. I surely trespassed someone’s land to arrive upon this spot, and my heart aches with the thought of a proprietor persecuting me for seeking peace in the hills – Moon Mountain belongs to no man.
The city stretches before me, dotted with juniper and piñon, before deferring to a brown sea of dead grasses, its shores lapping up on the bases of the Cerrillos Hills, and the distant misty blue megalith of Sandia. When will man next sit upon this spot and have these thoughts? Or has it already been, some barefoot Indian come to this flat rock to wonder about his place in Nature, which is naught but everything. I come to the woods to see how the Earth truly is, to escape the new wilderness – the concrete jungle – which a certain animal species chanced to transform it into. These gray and decomposing needles at my feet are the Earth. They will soon – incredibly soon on a cosmic scale – be reduced to nothing more than those basic elemental atoms which have always been, particles of which everything is and always will be constructed. There is naught in this universe that at one time was not part of a single particle – a particle surrounded by nothing yet containing all within its infinitesimally incomprehensible dimension. The sun is now shaded behind a cloud, and I must go.

La Cieneguilla

The rock on which I sit was worn down by the centuries, smoothed and shaped by the men who dwelled here eons before I have. Sacred images are carved into the rock, the only physical trace of Ancestral Puebloans on this spot. A horned serpent curved up the rock, body twisting and kinking to its horned head, each protrusion aligned on either side of a natural hole in the rock, an air pocket in lava, which in times unfathomable shot steaming and hissing out of a volcano – Tetilla Peak, which looms before me hauntingly in the distance, a landmark for travelers on the Camino Real in days when this land fell under Mexican control.
But, first came the Spanish in heavy armor and pomp, landed on distant shores, in unknown lands with men who were different, so utterly different that one assumed the other not man – not the same plane of existence as him.
The Kokopelli abounds here, sending echoes of the past through the wind, blown through his flute. He enchants from all angles with a hunched back, a trickster. From where did this image arise – flute god with horns and a corporeal form certainly not human. If, as those early philosophers pondered, God had not created man in his image, but man created his gods in man’s image, where do these conceptions of such unique beings arise from, and to be found in such a plethora of locations? There is so much we do not and cannot know. Animals – what separates those from man, merely an animal species – inspire these glyphs. Or extraterrestrials, as described in so many native legends.
Who sat on this rock before me? Whose rear helped shape this seat – wore down the ancient rock. Over the millennia this spot has been sacred, some native of this land spent hours carving petroglyphs into the rock from the spot where I sit.
What was the purpose of these symbols? Clearly religious, spiritual, connected to that part of pre-Columbian life so rarely acknowledged in this day. Ceremonial? Graffiti? Places to come and think, as I have?
The temporary green plains of July’s rain have come about so quick. Even if in two months time they shrivel, dry and die, the Kokopelli with his flute will still fill the air with chanting melodies so strong – but only if you truly listen. The land is dry, brown, and dull – many the beauty cannot see. Yet so much life is upon the rocks: pictures, carvings, lime green moss, and bright yellow lichen that life’s iron will cannot lend a hand to fade.

Ode to Dietrich

Ode to Dietrich

 If all the world were Dietrich
And stopped to hold the door,
If all the world were Dietrich
We’d bring an end to war.

 If it were common sense to all
To stand a league away,
When others spoke of personal things,
Why, that would be the day!

If all the world would work the lights
Without a sense of pride,
Nor seek glorification for
His works, but rather hide

In confident humility,
Enlightenment would flow,
Throughout this crazy world of ours,
The tropics to the snow.

“If you are doing something right,
No one will ever know.”
The truth contained within these words,
If only it could grow!

If all could take a test in math,
As I did this year past,
And never need a binder there –
We never even asked.

For Dietrich trusted me
And I trusted in him,
It fills me up with glee,
Oh! Right up to the brim

To think of my enlightened friend
Who’d never tell a lie,
Who rides his bike to school each day
While others sit and cry

About the planet growing warm
While driving in a car.
Well, Dietrich pedals every day,
Steadfast as a star

That hangs among the multitude
Each with a sparkly glow,
But his need not shine outwardly,
The brilliance is below

 And underneath the outer layer
Like all the wisest men.
So here’s for my friend Dietrich, he
For whom I say Amen!

Lines Composed on my 18th Birthday, After reading T.S. Eliot

“To be conscious is not to be in time,”
Although it may not seem this way at first
Because of habits we have made throughout
Our lives, so overcome with hate and thirst.
 But! There is not a difference ‘tween the two,
The clinging and the Buddha’s state of mind,
Just think on this while taking in the view
From some high mountain man will never find.

The trees and dirt,
Will never hurt,
Because they are enlightened, too
They sit and be,
So calm and free,
So why not you and me?

Acequia 9-29

Acequia 9-29

The fall is young, and leaves are yet to fall
From these green aspens quivering overhead.
All autumns colors have been in withdrawal
But soon will form a multi-colored bed
On which to lay and think about the day
Delighting in October’s balmy breeze,
Rejoicing in a grove so far away
And catching yellow remnants of the trees.
They’ll soon be nothing; dirt along the side
Of this secluded, still acequia.
And in that dirt, they’ll settle down and hide
Until the spring bird flutters down to wake them.
 But as I sit here summer’s colors still
Are prominent in covering the hills.

Song for Kalu

All the sentient being is my family.

The warmth of Kalu’s hug
Before rolling up a rug,
Will never be too distant from my heart.
Because it’s there inside,
And doesn’t like to hide,
But rather spreads to each and every part.

If you can be yourself,
And keep the mental health,
Then you have met the dharma, my dear friends.
And you can be at home,
While rambling all alone,
Among the aspens, meadows, streams and glens.

Don’t believe too much,
Or use dharma as a crutch,
But practice every moment that you live.
The bodhisattvas sing
About every little thing
And moment of compassion on this earth.

 The leaves tremble in the wind,
 As if Kalu had just grinned,
And spread his bodhichitta through the hills.
I love every little leaf,
And it is my firm belief,
That each will tumble down onto the ground.

 And millions of them are,
Falling softly, oh so far
From any place that man will ever go.
But falling none the less,
And none of them is best,
Soon all will fade to wrinkly, crumpled grey

They are my precious friends,
And I want to make amends,
For any harm I’ve caused throughout my life.
The water tumbles down,
And never starts to frown,
So why, then, you and I?
The trees are sitting still
Without exerting will,
Why then is it so hard for us to try?

The fish are in the stream,
Which to us is like a dream
Because we do not dwell within its flow.
Like tiny grains of sand
Which funnel through my hand
 I’m sad to say the time has come to go.

A small grassy area along Big Tesuque Creek

A small grassy area along Big Tesuque Creek, S branch, which I have not yet explored.

Every sentient being is my friend.

 Elusive! is the feeling of the fall
To write in words
Or say in speech
Although it is most glorious of all.

The Library of Babel must contain
Within its vast expanse,
Like never ending chants,
The feeling of the autumn breeze
And leaves maturing on the trees.

The sun is warm upon my back
Like never-ending, ceaseless black
From high above, come tumbling down
All the stars, onto the town.

 ‘Cus Earth is just a rock floating through space,
And I, a very small part of its face.
So float and tumble on!
I’ll miss you when I’m gone!
Oh! Big Tesuque in the morning dawn!

Love Sonnetts Written in Fall

I.
 It seems to me the mystery of love,
Of all the many trials in this life
Sent down to test us humans, from above
Excels in domination, breeding strife.
Today I saw a girl who had skin
That shone just like the moon, beneath her hair,
 I couldn’t help myself but start to grin
And feel a fiery yearning at her stare.
To speak the words! those magic words! if I
Could only find them in my spinning head!
I know I’ll just sound foolish if I try,
and such attempts are better left unsaid.
But still, I cannot hold my tongue when she
 And I walk dreamily down by the sea.

 II.
But could I love her then, as I do now?
 I fear that I could not, for when one finds
The object of his grueling quest, then how
Much peace will truly live inside his mind?
It cannot be! For everything grows old
And those dark eyes, which charm like an abyss
Will slip free from infatuation’s hold
Which sent me days pursuing her soft kiss.
 I know this truth inside my head, but still
My heart will urge me on with gilded thoughts
Of passing love-filled nights with her, until
At last my passionate longing fades and rots.
But that allure, that never dying charm
Strikes when her fingers brush against my arm.

 III.
Oh! How she tortures me! I cannot keep
My sanity when she looks in my eyes,
Nor find a bit of respite when I sleep
Beneath the autumn’s midnight azure sky.
And even when she laughs at me I feel
Accomplished, that I made that girl smile.
If I could sweep her far away with zeal
And sit alone, for just a little while!
 Today I held her in my arms and felt
Her breath upon my neck, before we brushed
 Our lips together, and began to melt
Into a place, where all the world hushed.
It lasted an eternity, that kiss,
That momentary taste of utter bliss.

9-24 Autumn

9-24

The forest is so magic in the fall.
There’s not a time that I would rather stroll
Along this high and lonely mountain pass.
The melancholy breezes in the trees
Remind me of this season’s great allure
When, starting in the valley all the trees
Begin to show and lose their falling leaves.
When golden evening light begins to play
Upon one’s face, at closing of the day,
The time of year when Keats most comes to mind,
When ‘mid the groves of aspens one does find
A golden blanket, carpeting the earth
Reminding us of what is after birth.
The skies are blue but cooled by the wind
Whose mournful feeling can be sensed in each
And every place through which I stroll and think
About the memories of this season’s last
Grand spectacle of colors, leaves, and forms
Which place me in a solitary mood;
A friend of books, telling of days of old,
Of pensive contemplation of the works,
Of Nature, and the boundless Universe.

Spirit of Big T

To sit and listen to the pines
And end the suffering of our minds
While hiking with the quiet creek
And looking back upon the week
Is so sublime to me.

The snow is piled fathoms deep
And all the aspens gone to sleep
The shadows of the branches play
Upon the sparkling snow today
And I am feeling free.

 The city’s gone; purged from my head
When walking here my soul is fed
The soothing, perfect essence of
The blue sky, and the firs above
Who do not need a change.

The sun is glowing bright today
So kids can bundle up and play
And laugh
               While I am strolling here
And feel my mind becoming clear
In this high mountain range.

1-28

                Inspiration comes in flashes,

Along with rhode island beaches, and

Moldy brown growth on the toilet,

Freshly caught fish grilled to perfection

And served with corn and squash

On paper plates;

The smell of salty air, and taste of

Eastern values thick in the mouth,

Fog horns and lightening storms,

Marshes infested with mosquitos

And dragging a boat across the freshly

Mown lawn, which smells sharp like

Recently cut grass, hands made raw

And rubbed sore by the taught rope

Used to pull it into the water among the reeds.

Sheets are thick and moist.

I’d love the smell of coffee

And fresh sage, misted in the

Morning dew, to greet me.

There’s no more pleasant way to

Greet the day than hearing the songs

Of the birds, chirping, laughing, playing,

Embodying the life and warmth of the

January sun, uncommonly strong and

Unobscured, brightening the day –

A blue sky; dead, brown fields. I’ll

Sit down in my sleeping bag and chant

OM MANI PADME HUNG  in a tune

I invented, or currently use, or comes

Through me, or whatever may be happening

There. Sip black coffee, too.  A glance at the branches

Outlined against the blue sky and followed by

The piñon hills, reminds me that everything is

Perfect just the way it is.

Poetry is such a joyless form. Fruitless, rather.

I see a lot of people hearing, not listening,

Seeing, not being. I’m struck by the thunder

Bolt of taking a moment, or rather of a

Moment taking you, and feeling your existence

fully, truly:

here.