FIFTIETH ANNUAL
The dainty little goat
licks my hand as I stretch
into her stall
to scratch behind her elegant
ears:
I, who have been her father
and mother,
sister and brother, lover and
friend,
through all the twists and
turns of Samsara.
She stands upon her hind
legs.
I draw back my arm, pleased
at such rapport with the
animal world.
From the corner of my eye a
poster
warns the crowd at the County
Fair:
“Wash your hands if you touch
the livestock.”
WINTER SOLSTICE
Blue winter sunshine,
Brilliant, clear,
Marriage of heat and light,
Love and Wisdom,
Mine and Yours,
Carols of winterberry.
Leave it all alone:
The axe in the tool shed,
Ornaments in the attic,
The uncensored evergreen.
Worship in the wilderness,
Home where you belong.
Pines branching infinitely,
Bowing low with humility,
Hoary, ancient,
Crystalline, youthful:
Prisms twinkling
Music of fire and snow.
BIRD’S NEST
Lifetimes ago, in ancient T’ang,
I served as governor
(For poets could be rulers then)
And all was just and fair—
For I did balance art and life,
Creating such a tone
Throughout my district, that the law
And beauty were as one.
One day I strolled upon my rounds,
And saw that all was good.
Emerging from the mist, I stopped
Beside a tangled wood
And peered for birds amid the dense
Brocade of uncut trees,
When suddenly my eyes grew wide
To see what I did see!
A hermit monk had roosted in
The branches up above,
In such a nest of leaves and twigs
As only birds could love.
So anxious for an interview,
I stood beneath his shade
And cried, “Your seat is perilous,
And are you not afraid?”
“You seat is worse by far than mine,”
The recluse did reply;
To which I almost took offense,
Then thought to ask him why.
“I see no danger where I am,”
I said, “For I am he
Who rules here as the sages did
Before all history!”
“Then you don’t know yourself,” he smiled;
“For while your passions burn,
And mind is bobbing like a cork,
What safety have you earned?”
“What is the teaching, then,” I asked,
“Of which all Buddhas speak?”
For I had arguments prepared
Against my own defeat.
“To do no evil,” he replied,
“While practicing all good;
To keep the heart sincere and pure--
This speaks of Buddahood.”
I must confess I heard with scorn.
“Why, any three year old
Can parrot such a well-known verse!
Is only this your goal?”
“A three year old may know it well,”
He chirped, “But here I sit,
An eighty year old man, and find
It hard to practice it!”
ENSEMBLE GALILEI
The Celtic Harp and Fiddle
seize the day
With Scottish and Uillean
Pipes and Flute,
The Viola da Gamba and
Oboe,--
All intertwined to fill Saint
John’s Great Hall,
Therein to celebrate the
thirteenth time
The Winter Solstice with
their Christmas cheer.
A seasoned Voice from Public
Radio
Is instrumental also, joined
with these,
And reads Jack London and
Kieran O’Hare.
The Music and the Words
together bring
Each other such communion of
glad life,
That even the One Hundred
Books receive `
The Spirit, and come tripping
off their shelves!
As Kant with Hegel, Twain
with Plato dance,
The February Swans and Easter
Snow
Loom through the ancient
windows. Sunset yields
Its influence while Heaven
and Nature sing.
MEISTER ECKHART’S CHRISTMAS SERMON
O Christians! What good
Behooves you to kneel
At mangers of wood
To praise the unreal?
Lullaby, goodnight,
A Savior is born
To waken the Light
Within us this morn.
Your god and your soul
Are figures of speech!
To that which is whole,
Mere words cannot reach.
Lullaby, goodnight,
A Savior is born
To waken the Light
Within us this morn.
And whoso lays waste
To self, he deserts
All semblance and taste
Of pleasure or mirth.
Lullaby, goodnight,
A Savior is born
To waken the Light
Within us this morn.
Then out of the void
A Word came to me,
And spoke of a joy
Too deep to be seized.
Lullaby, goodnight,
A Savior is born
To waken the Light
Within us this morn.
