MURYOKO

'Infinite Light'

Journal of Shin Buddhism

Jerry Bolick

The song, the hum ...
A Poem for Thanksgiving 2002.
Walking with You.
A Prayer, After 9/11.
Marin Hills Remembrance.
The owl called this morning ...
After the third day ...
I woke this morning ...
At the time of the great fall ...
Dreaming fog ...
Fog shrouds the hills ...
Walking the hills ...
Green-black hills, covered with fog ...

The song, the hum ...

The song, the hum ...
and murmur of living,
named by Buddha
so that we recognize
that which we hear
and delight in our hearing
of that which is our very own
living and dying,
alone and together,
resonating in the air
that is our existence,
a hum across the vastness
of time and space,
a murmur
in the individual heart,
spoken in every voice
as one voice;
a Name heard,
a heart warmed,
life given
and life received:

Namuamidabutsu.

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A poem for Thanksgiving 2002

I speak like this
to you, again,
because you still listen.
In the face
of the turmoil that surrounds,
this is all we have
that is certain:
our mutual witness.
I admit to doubt, at times,
at the sufficiency
of this that seems so transient;
but, somehow
the call implicit in the question
reveals promise that sustains.
And I've come to see
that it's quite enough,
just as it is.

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Walking With You:

Confirmation
of what we know
and have known through time
settles all, even to the last.
Affirmation,
a telling shift and lock,
the reach and stretch
of a heel coming down just right.

The world is as we knew it
when days were long
and the sun shone endless
across fields and woodlands,
when distances were great,
anticipation keen.

Patterns and textures
are as they were then,
but we wear shoes now
and the pulse of grass
can be heard only through bare skin.

It's in the shoes, it seems.

Folded up, tucked away in the instep

is the trust we flaunted

out of sheer joy

of what was ours.

We need to open that up again

to the light, walk in the grass

and feel it all shift back

into place.

Along the way,

we'll hold hands

with those

who haven't been there before.

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A Prayer, after 9/11:

The Hopi people of the southwest region of North America taught that important decisions should not be made without first considering the impact of those decisions on the next seven generations. With an eye to the seven generations hence...

There is this flame.

Steady and sure,

it has been passed to us,

each of us and all of us in turn.
And we pass it on---
this is the way it works.

This flame is a gift

but one so close
we often fail to see it
as it really is,
so often mistake it
for that which cloaks
and smothers its brilliance.

The flame is first,
before the dance,
first before the music.
You can see it in others,
feel it in yourself.
It dances in the young,
sparkles and shines
like sun on the ocean,
music and movement
resonant
in the mutual embrace of trust:

   the gate of light
   pierces the veil,
   spans the chasms
   of fear;
   the glow of elders
   caught up and fanned
   by the rhythms of living
   heat in the heart,
   warmth through limbs,
   finger tips burning.

Of the may things you will hear,
this is the one we wish most
for you to remember.
The flame is first.
When you lose your way,
when voices press around you
and your very own life
seems as a stranger,
step carefully,
hold still.
If let be,
it will recognize itself.
In it we will never lose one another.

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Marin Hills Remembrance:

Riding thru
rain-clean streets
this morning, small puddles
flashed
silver light
friend Isaac.

Tight-throat
remembrance
of the mud
of your grave,
how we clung
to that hill
in drizzling
clouds and fog
friend Isaac...

       just
      the kind
      of day
      you loved.

I have heard
that even the smallest of puddles,
if approached with great care,
will reveal the whole expanse of the sky
and all
that it holds,
even,
at the very edge,
your own
wondering eyes.

I have also heard,
friend Isaac,
that you always knew this
to be true.

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The Owl Called This Morning

The owl called this morning,
along the hills,
through rain-damp streets
and puddles reflecting tangled branches
overhead. The owl called
from the dark of canyons,
even as light broke across the face of the far bay.
Out of deep quiet,
the owl called this morning
and blossoms paused,
still with the weight of dew,
too early, yet, to know their fruit.

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After The Third Day

After the third day,
the winds subside,
in the early evening just before sun down
when the light is still clean,
and it's suddenly quiet,
like returning
to the closed comfort of home,
where rest flows in
at the mere opening of the door,
reaching the very bones of being,
the place where weariness happens
unabated, surrender sweetens
into the joyful ache of yes
and all, of its own, is still.

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I Woke This Morning

I woke this morning,
my whole life
stretched out with me
in the light.

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At The Time of the Great Fall

At the time of the great fall,
from the sky they said:
Before the end
there will be only afternoon.
Morning worn through
leaves the longest
of shadows across grasses
that move in waves
with the winds.

Green palm leaves will hold
the last of the written words.

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Dreaming Fog

Dreaming fog,
pine needles emerge,
each with a single drop,
holding, waiting
the sun,
looking---
for the way to speak.

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Fog Shrouded Hills

Fog shrouds the hills
as noise from the radio
fades into memory
and the clock returns
to the quiet air;
the sun works the haze,
week-end images
push through,
influence invisible
as caffeine
flowing readily
from the first cup,
touting certainty
as if no ebb will follow.
And we wonder together
at the voice of violence
rising from the newspaper's face,
when the tide will turn.

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Walking the Hills

Walking the hills
this morning,
awash in a grey
sea of fog,
emmersed
in the shifting face
of air taken by water
as its own;
substantial transparency,
a walk-through shroud
touching all, holding none---
pine branches,
full and still,
wait the coming sun.

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Green-black Hills, Covered With Fog

Green-black hills covered with fog.
Pines hang midway
between heaven and earth
and a solitary figure,
paused on a precipice,
chanting the Buddha's Name
into the valley below.
Morning prayers
for a troubled world.

Namuamidabutsu.

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