Spectator Sport
The Universe was once a contact sport.
We played it morning ’till night,
breathed it, touched it, tasted it,
explored it, and heard its myriad voices
speaking directly to our ears.
Now, it has become a spectator sport.
We pay to watch images of it from afar,
let others tell us what it is, and isn’t.
While we think we are mastering it,
it slips further from our awareness
until one day only images remain.
The end of humanity.
Cloud Hidden
I am eighty-one years old,
we are far from established and secure,
(is anyone?)
but very comfortable.
Why in the world would we pull up stakes,
pack up our few possessions in the car,
and head for a new town,
housing unknown?
It’s contrary to all common sense.
This is a time of life to pull the comforts tightly
about my body, and rest, and wait…
But my archetypes are wanderers,
cloud hidden, whereabouts unknown.
Ryokan the wandering monk,
Basho, the traveling poet,
Lao-Tzu, who rode his ox into the mountains.
I am these travelers.
I am Stonehouse
I am Stonehouse.
I am Ryokan.
I am as safe, and as at-risk
as they were in each and every moment.
They had no safety net, no sophisticated society,
no fine housing, no closet full of clothes.
I worry about my health,
I imagine they did too, but they had no choice
but to let the Way unfold within them.
I worry about losing what I have,
I imagine they did too,
I mean, Stonehouse’s crops could be lost,
his hut burn down, soldiers suddenly appear.
Ryokan could meet murderous highwaymen,
return home to find his Banana-Tree Hut destroyed.
Still their life was centered in the Way
and happiness was the default setting
of their lives.
Each morning, and each evening, I whisper a prayer,
“This is the moment I’ve been waiting for.
I am Stonehouse. I am Ryokan.”
What's Next?
As I explore the question, “What next?”
I notice a life-long habit in my mind
that keeps such questions churning underground.
While walking, halfway through, I think,
“What will I do when I get back?”
When I am eating, I think,
“Shall I watch a film tonight?”
While watching the film, I think,
“How long will this film last?”
“How long? What’s next? Shall I…?”
As I write these lines, I think,
“I want some more coffee.”
Whatever’s next, I don’t need to know.
Someday the answer will be, “Nothing.”
and I don’t want to miss a single moment
in between now and then.
A Poem for Each Day
This is the day!
This is the day I’ve been waiting for
all of my life!
It’s come.
It’s here.
I want it to last
I want the minutes to pass
at a leisurely pace,
each one savored
as a fine wine.
This is the day
I've been waiting for
all of my life!
Insomnia
I sit this evening, anxious, wondering
if sleep will come, or if my mind
will keep its tight control,
alert, scanning, and wary.
I can do many things,
but I can’t do sleep.
Doing it, I lose it.
Weaving
I don’t create my life,
I weave it, thread by thread.
Slowly, gently, the shuttle glides
back and forth, a pattern emerges
of its own accord while I watch.
anxiety and serenity,
fear and confidence,
depression and joy
incorporated, providing shadow and shade
for the lighter colors to emerge.
I am both the weaver and the woven,
the watcher and the watched,
the actor and the action,
the Divine and the human
only One.
Journey's End
I’ve reached the end of my journey.
Not at all a giving up on life,
simply no more striving,
seeking, searching, trying,
maintaining, growing, gaining.
No more reading to improve myself.
No more spiritual practices seeking God.
No more interest in insights.
I’m at the Still Point of the journey’s end
seeing for the first time that it is where
I’ve always been.
Deep breath, happy sigh,
quail strutting on the wall.
Help
mind is the problem,
Mind is the solution,
and there’s the conundrum.
There is a Mind beneath mind
in which I long to dwell,
but mind is always in the way
of Mind.
Years of Zen exhausted me,
using mind to conquer itself.
A point of surrender comes,
bringing despair or hope - my choice.
Despair assumes it’s an endless bootstrap effort,
that might as well be finished.
Hope glimpses Something to which surrender
might open prison doors.
Mind might be waiting
to take the reins when I finally
unclench my fists.
The Truth hidden in the twisted cords
of faith-based religions - Grace,
is not the property of the pious,
but the nature of the Universe.
Hidden in the dusty labyrinth of 12-step programs
waits the understanding of.
“I can’t do this!
No effort, or strategy or practice has worked.
I need help!”
Might Mind wait for just this moment?
A Quail Calls
A quail standing outside on the wall
is calling for someone,
or warning someone about something,
or just singing some notes to the desert
because he is happy to be alive.
My words are not a call to arms
nor a warning of impending doom.
I’m just singing to the desert
because I’m happy to be alive.
Beneath the Parking Lot
They paved paradise
and told us to park in rows.
They forgot that seeds and roots remember,
hidden beneath the asphalt.
Without permission, without waiting
for new political leadership, we find cracks
in the corners they overlooked,
in the garbage dumps they ignore,
in among the genetic-tampered seeds
we wait.
Like coyote we don’t fight head-on.
We grin sideways and slip away.
Here, underground, we await the storm
that invites a spring-green revolution.
We’re not here to overthrow.
We are here to under-grow.
Ecology of Agency
I can’t fix a refrigerator, repair a car,
or control the machine of modern life.
But I can dance,
instead of pacing back and forth.
I can leave a polite message,
instead of ranting into the phone.
I can breathe slowly,
rather than hyperventilating.
I can move my body
to rhythms that are mine alone.
I can write a poem to express
both my despair and my power.
I can pay attention to the world
always waiting beneath the machine.
Micro-moments of agency
more powerful than ill-considered revolution.
This is how the world is tended, not by heroes
but by those who quietly recuse
yet refuse to disappear.
Quiet
Quiet isn’t always peaceful.
It can open the heart to unshed tears,
loosen unspoken longings,
and unleash un-howled howls.
Quiet isn’t always safe.
It is filled with hidden fears
waiting to be seen and faced.
Quiet isn’t always what we want.
We say we do, but we really don’t want space
for demons to emerge.
Better to keep them hidden
in the cacophony of culture.
Peace and joy do await within the quiet,
but first the unheard, unspoken,
unfelt noise must have its time.
Retired?
Retirement is much too serious a word.
It requires thoughtful financial planning so that
cruises, safaris, and golf
can unfold in days of comfort.
I choose to recuse and require
no thought, no planning, no security,
to fill my days with coyote howls at midnight
and dances under Ryokan’s moon.
From My Friend, Coyote
I saw you this morning, old friend.
You didn’t see me, of course, though you might have felt
your skin prickle just a bit.
That was me.
I watched you sip your coffee in the dark
and heard your gentle breathing.
I’m here because you called for freedom.
You wanted a tame sort of freedom but,
surprise! You got me instead,
to teach you to howl when others least expect it.
When you ranted at that old priest
who wanted to convince your class of sin?
That was me, making sure that people
did not mistake you for the Dalai Lama.
Any serenity you have must be like the desert,
brushed by sun and wind across
the hidden bones of Ed, who smiles
his crooked smile and sails the skies
as buzzard energy, my companion trickster.
When you feel the brush of wings, look up,
Abbey will be there, and while your looking up
I’ll wrap my tail around your ankles
and flop you in the dirt.
We both love you deeply,
deep enough to confuse you, trick you,
and flop you on your belly when we feel the urge.
Some may walk their later years
in the footsteps of the Buddha.
That is not for you, my dear.
Your path is marked by paw prints.
If you reach your hand down sometime,
and are startled by a furry touch,
I’ll be gone before you can spot me
but I’ll be laughing behind the saguaro,
never far away.
Un-Square Dance
They dance in lines and boxes,
turning corners in neat rhythms.
A voice from above tells them when to swing.
Bless them truly, for joy takes many forms.
But my feet no longer follow orders.
I’ve exiled the caller
and burned the pattern.
I dance in spirals.
With Ryokan, and the moon,
and the shadow of a hawk passing overhead.
No partner, no pattern, no applause.
Just me and the rhythm
of a world that has forgotten
how to march.
William Martin 