Featured

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/5/20

Sunday afternoon.

I give myself a pedi-

cure and take a walk.

Low tide. Sun on the

mudflats. The horizon bright

with the sound of geese.

As Zhuangzi says, this

is also a that. Nothing

compares with the Il-

lumination of

the Obvious. Haiku and

Zen go together.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/29/20

From under my um-

brella Canadian geese

appeared on the grass.

First day of endless

rain. I had walked into them.

They kept grazing. One

can’t keep every-

thing in mind. The grass was soft

and green under them.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/28/20

A great happiness

came over me today as

I walked in the rain

down by the grey cove.

None of my bird friends were there,

just sea, sky, and rain.

That raw wet distance

I knew as the origin

whence poems descend.

Near Providence 10/27/20

What highway ends here

where the great geese congregate

in our small waters?

White and black they churn,

a strict bounty on each head.

Eternity’s love

for time’s others not-

withstanding, some return north,

going the distance.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/26/20

After my haircut

I bought Japanese whisky

to share with a friend.

No friend, no whisky—

that’s my rule. On the way home

Fall mist soaked me through.

The whisky warmed me,

the haircut raised my hope in

eternal friendship.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/25/20

I take the same path

each day not expecting much,

though same means little.

If my path crosses

a slant of Autumn sunshine,

I see the shriveled

Iris as I pass,

the original purple

deepened in the shade.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/24/20

I cough, suddenly

afraid I caught the virus

in my solitude.

I hear time breathe in

the moment I sought in prayer.

That is time’s breakthrough.

Eternity com-

panions each last moment of

my life, of my life.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/23/20

The blood of Pequots

seeps through in dying marsh grass

each Fall as I pass

Such ferocity!

These English made a new world.

Hard to describe the

colors that rise at the edge

of the blue water.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/22/20

On my daily walk

I take Basho’s “Narrow Road.”

I know my limits.

Once my companions

valued free expression. I

left them on the road.

I’m too old to go

far. When my heart feels pure, I

take a coffee break.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/21/20

The Bay wrinkles and

the oak trees rustle. An o-

vercast day good for

waiting. No heron

rises from the bronze marsh grass.

Basho read over

and over a new

haiku until Way appeared—

no other feelings.

NEAR PROVIDENCE 10/20/20

Even the tide sounds

lonely through the mist and pines.

Without solitude

I’d find the village

dreary, but when the heart floods

with joy, I don’t care.