Women-sí

the mountain mist floats in and out

of the crevices and valleys below my feet.
Jinding cliff falls off into a sea of vast whiteness,
Wumen-sí means temple above the clouds,
where Zen Monks practice and
pay homage to the sacred Bodhisattva’s home.
one minute visible and then gone
in the very next instant.
many Monks living at the roof of China
in the perfection of blue skies
and bright sun
the thin air has me gasping for breath.
I bow to Samantabhadra
as an old monk strikes the bell,
Amidofu he says,
Amidofu I reply.

renegade ji do poep sa nim

sitting quietly in the upstairs dharma room

the early morning stillness envelopes me

participants are scarce

only hang ja nim and I are present

after some period of time

the stillness of the morning is suddenly broken

the door creaks open, thudding footsteps resound,

and the slick rustling of nylon clothing

thinking immediately arises

who is it who doesn’t understand

correct situation and correct function

trying to return focus to the floor

the noise irritates me

suddenly a tap on the shoulder

reveals the culprit

a renegade ji do poep sa nim

who has snuck out of kyol che

the irritation vanishes as she

invites me to an impromptu breakfast

teacher and student,

wonderful to have such friends

catching up on events

the realization arises

that we are not two and not one

the eggs, hash browns and toast are delicious

the conversation is clear

don’t attach at all to the process

seize the moment before it is gone.

March 8, 1996
Providence Zen Center, RI

Essence

we sometimes find ourselves
in the the craggy places in life
there is no warmth
the sun always seems to be obscured by clouds
as the dampness sets in
we realize our place in the cosmos
good and bad
right and wrong
these are merely constructs
if we attach to our situation
we lose ourselves in the process
it is this subtle understanding
that blocks the path
to our true selves
whether our situation is good
or our situation is bad
has nothing to do with our lives.
we must see the truth
in this very moment
and transcendence all of our thinking
to arrive at the present
and say hello
to our true selves

inclement weather

dense fog fills the valleys.

the grey cold creeps into my bones.

mossy peaks jut out of clouds,

their outlines a blur—

out of focus and

stopped in time;

they float on the horizon.

my mind is a mess—

just like

the confusing mist.

floating just where

I want clarity—

hiding it from my sight

I strain to see,

with all my might—

when I stop

and just relax—

out of the corner

of my eye.

a fleeting glimpse

tells me

it will all be

all right!

for sŏnsa–nim

grey beard

soft as white clouds

his clear eyes manifest

in the azure blue sky

the old man said;

‘soft is better,

like yielding water

wears at the granite.”

I will meet you

in ten thousand years,

when spring comes

snow melts

and water

flows to the ocean.

bismillah road kill

listening to Coleman Barks[i]

recite a poem by

Jalal ad-Din Rumi[ii] about sacrifice

and the heaviness of karma.

so many attachments

we hold in our breasts.

how could we ever be forthright,

with such heavy burdens to bear?

metaphorically speaking he said;

“say Bismillah[iii], in the name of God,

 as the priest does with a knife when

 he offers an animal at the altar.

 Bismillah your old self

 and find your real name.”

at this same exact moment

on my way to work,

I have lost who I am.

what is it that this life really means,

out of the confusion,

comes the clarity

and now I understand completely,

Jalal ad-Din Rumi said Bismillah

for me in this place,

yet at that time.

realizing now that time and space

have no meaning.

just now, the ageless

blue sierra mountains

are sentinels of time immemorial,

whose vibrant peaks

in this bless’d morning air

are cloaked and hidden

in dense grey clouds;

yet, the sky above the pacific ocean

is transparent and neon blue,

dancing with the souls of

the tens of billions who went before.

a single thread of clouds connects

between the mountains and the ocean,

while seagulls float effortlessly

on the morning air.

Jalal ad-Din Rumi is alive in my heart

as smoke rises from a distant chimney

a smile appears upon my lips.

December 22, 1997

Highway 39

---

[i] Coleman Barks: an American poet and renowned translator of Rumi poetry and other mystic poets of Persia. Barks has published several volumes of Rumi’s poetry since 1976, including The Hand of Poetry, Five Mystic Poets of Persia in 1993, The Essential Rumi in 1995 and The Book of Love in 2003. Coleman Barks himself does not speak Persian, and bases his translations entirely off of other English translations of Rumi. In addition, while the original Persian poetry of Rumi is heavily rhymed and metered, Barks has used primarily free verse. This has led some to criticize Barks’ works as essentially original creations, while others laud his efforts at providing the essence of Rumi’s poetry in an accessible format.

[ii] Mawlānā Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī (Persian: مولانا جلال الدين محمد رومي‎ ​, Turkish: Mevlânâ Celâleddin Mehmed Rumi) ‎ (1207 — 1273 CE), also known as Muhammad Balkhī (Persian: محمد بلخى‎ ​), was a 13th century Persian poet, jurist, theologian and teacher of Sufism. Rumi was born in Balkh (then a city of the Greater Khorasan province of Persia, now part of Afghanistan) and died in Konya (in present-day Turkey). His birthplace and native tongue indicate a Persian/Iranian heritage. He also wrote his poetry in Persian and his works are widely read in Iran and Afghanistan where the language is spoken. He lived most of his life and produced his works under the Seljuk Empire and his descendants today are Turkish citizens and live in modern day Turkey. Rumi’s importance transcends national and ethnic borders. He has had a significant influence on both Turkish and Persian literature throughout the centuries. His poems have been translated into many of the world’s languages and have appeared in various formats. He was also the founder of the Mevlevi order, better known as the “Whirling Dervishes”, who believe in performing their worship in the form of dance and music ceremony called the sema.

[iii] Bismilla: (Arabic بسملة) is an Arabic-language noun which is used as the collective name of the whole of the recurring Islamic phrase bismi-llāhi ar-rahmāni ar-rahīmi (listen). This phrase constitutes the first verse of the first “sura” (or chapter) of the Qur’an, and is used in a number of contexts by Muslims. It is recited several times as part of Muslim daily prayers, and it is usually the first phrase in the preamble of the constitutions of Islamic countries.

technologically dependent

This one is kind of dated, ha ha ha...... wrote it in 1996

damn, my modem’s not responding,

how am I going to get my e-mail?

last week it was the hard drive

on my computer that caused the anxiety.

and when I lost my pager

I had to change the link to the

zen center voice mail,

my personal voice mail,

my business voice mail

and my automatic fax notification

not to mention the business cards

and printed matter.

what if someone’s trying to page me on the old number?

when I forgot my electronic organizer

on my last business trip I couldn’t call anyone.

as I leave the zen center

to go to work this morning,

there is a single rose blooming

on the bush by the front door.

delicately white, the edges are

faintly trimmed in scarlet.

bending over, the fragrance is overpowering.

of course......that’s it.

the front lawn is vibrant green

with new growth from the recent rains.

the air is crisp this morning,

breathing out

the warm air condenses

and the vapor slowly dissipates.

January 8, 1996

Hae An Soen Won

zen master fortune cookie

Image via Wikipedia

Christmas Eve party, conversation with a monk

about a koan interview I had

with a teacher from another zen tradition.

“he gave up his center

  and asked me to teach him.”

surprised by the monk’s response,

“this is a great man!” hyon mun said to me.

pretending like I also understood, I smiled.

today, at lunch, after eating ma-po tofu—

the fortune cookie read;

“yours is the role of host wherever you may go.”

I had to laugh out loud!

it finally struck me.

host and guest are not important,

one is not better than the other.

to ask a visiting zen student to teach you,

when there is something to be learned—

is the mark of a great man.

how blind I am—stumbling about this way and that.

how lucky I am—to have a teacher like this.

outside the restaurant the air is warm,

a good friend is smiling.

we have managed to escape

the drudgery of work—once again.

how lucky I am to be so blind.

December 28, 1995

La Habra, CA

for p’arang iii

you and I are

just breath-breathing human beings,

lowering our heads

below the plane

occupied by our feet,

upside down

and topsy-turvy are

the realm of opening and life.

the sacred unfolds

within your shining eyes tonight.

reflection is within

the ticking of the clock on the wall.

love–

is a manifestation of our

ability to just let go,

letting go–

is a demonstration of

our will to be free.

I–

 which has never existed,

loves you–

that I will never know,

within this appearance,

I can only aspire

to touch your heart

and kiss your forehead

and know

we have never

ever

been

apart..........

It is with a discerning heart

It is with a discerning heart

And a compassion

That comes from

The depths of my soul,

That I come to you

With my spirit exposed

And my grace extends

From the inner

Workings of your heart

To be present

Is to be alive,

To be absorbed

So completely

In the action

That any idea

Of self and other

Never rose

Into cosmic awareness.

This is you

And this is me

And this is we

For you and I

Are not different.

For you and I

Are never the same.

It is just

That he and she

Became

All that I see.

perhaps there are moments,

perhaps there are moments,

which each of us realize

that our whole life

is hanging in the balance–

of a simple glance–

or a look–

that we have been

patiently waiting for

our entire lives.

it is with this solemn grace

and the virtue of ten thousand distractions

that we can see through

to the core

of all human emotion,

and when we realize

that it is not just for our own

momentary satisfaction

and that an entire cosmos has opened up

that was hidden previously

from our purview.

it is the sanctity of the pure heart

and the vow passed from two

waiting lips–

this life is not mine

I can not do with it

what I want.

a Sufi student

Image via Wikipedia

a Sufi student came to stay a while

the meditation would do him good.

we talked of Buddhism and of Zen,

spoke of Rumi and Kabir.

we talked of the path the Daoist takes

and the one the Moslem’s tread.

with all the stops along the way

this journey seems sometimes long.

he was told of secrets

known only to a Sufi master,

to which I could only respond;

“the only secret is, there is no secret

 and nothing left to find.”

he argued; “only a chosen few,

have the secret truth revealed.”

this idea a misguided interpretation

the Mevlana had also heard that lie,

I handed him a book of Rumi poems

a single tear welled in his eye.

he read that book both day and night,

and talked of nothing else.

all this teaching so wide and clear

but these poems remained another’s words.

the secret hidden from his grasp,

he will never find what he seeks.

desire brought him to stay with me,

that same desire drove him away.

we embraced before his journey south

I was sad to see him go.

the only thing we’ve heard of since;

someone defiled his Quran.

January 8, 1998

La Habra, CA

winter into spring

Image via Wikipedia

grey sky and cold wind.

leaves and branches

dance in the rain.

tall pine trees

wave their furry arms.

this somber mood—

a reflection of wind

rustling through the trees.

red clay tile roof

shiny from the rains.

spring blossoms fall to the ground—

a lone starling chirping

from some hidden nest.

rain drops splash

on the surface of the pool—

while the spring blossoms

float in patterns

directed by the wind.

life follows this cycle of events.

winter becomes spring,

spring becomes summer,

summer into autumn,

to begin the cycle again.

breathing and feeling

the cool wind against my face—

time and place are no longer separate.

dawn

Image via Wikipedia

the sun reflects beneath

scattered cirrus clouds.

fingers of pink and grey light

radiate like a spoke

from the source.

early mornings are a wonder

before the world has awaken.

quiet and still,

peaceful and alive.

the radiance penetrates the soul

and moves me towards a door.

calm and serene

no movement

besides the breath

within this space

the universe unfolds

its mystery.

January 2, 1998

Haean Sŏnwŏn

wooden idols?

a wooden Buddha sits quietly on the altar

reminding the sangha to be patient and diligent

a wooden Virgin Mary stands behind the pulpit

reminding the parishioners to be compassionate and pure

a wooden Cross graces the wall above the podium

reminding the congregation

of the great sacrifice and suffering.

some would say there is a difference,

that images of people are pagan idols.

some would say they are all only wooden images

and ultimately they are the same.

the same or different, this is the dilemma,

don’t get trapped, your thinking will kill you.

neither of these are correct

pay attention, wake up

Buddha and the Virgin Mary are smiling

the wooden cross has two perpendicular lines.

how may I help you, today?

December 18, 1996

Hae An Soen Won

Poem for Kathy Daul

poem for K. D.

vast blue cloudless winter sky

empty and void this morning,

true nature revealed.

your azure blue eyes are sometimes like this.

some mornings the fog is very thick and cold.

other mornings the low grey clouds hang dense and dark;

but, the sky is always the same.

just like this true nature is always there,

sometimes manifest—sometimes obscure.

how silly to chase our problems and ideas,

are they not just clouds that have appeared by themselves

and will disappear with no intervention?

how many mornings—forgetting the sky?

how many times—ignoring true nature?

the blue mountains are looming in the distance.

somehow  laughing at our frailty

their message is clear.

hurry up!

but, be gentle along the way.

January 11, 1996

Beach Blvd.—Huntington Beach, CA

Kathy Daul

every shining thing

“inside this box
is a gold chain and pendant
which says Buddha in Chinese,
it is there to remind
you of your true-self
always and everywhere.”
a cool breeze is in the air,
birds begin to fly south.
flowers of spring beginning to recede.
a smile is on my face.
what a miracle—breathing each moment.
38 years have passed before today.
autumn is approaching,
bodies grow old and weary,
but our true self is constant and pure.
the sky is grey in the morning,
crickets chirping every evening.
Zen Master Lin Chi once said;
“gold is a very precious thing,
but if gold dust gets in your eyes
it clouds the vision.”

October 10, 1995
Happy Birthday Kathy

flight 851

kwan-se-um-bosal,

kwan-se-um-bosal,

kwan-se-um-bosal.

the 737 shakes and rattles

breaking ground at dawn.

morning mist and fog

obscures the sometimes

sharp edge at the horizon.

moments like these

bring me face to face

with my own mortality.

yesterday’s despair and loneliness

give way to joyful anticipation.

the grey earth and blue sky

meet at this fuzzy

pink and red juncture.

leaving dallas behind

the sun rises in the east,

as popping ears

constantly change the pitch

of the droning engines

and the hiss

of the air conditioned wind.

January 20, 1996

Over Central Texas