I Turned Out to Be Me

I could have been anything. I knew I wouldn't be tall, but I thought I could be a pro basketball player because the Globetrotters had players like Too Tall (5'2").  And during the baseball season I thought I could turn pro and become as good as any of my baseball heroes like Minnie Moñoso. I would just need to learn to hit the ball and a few other minor things. In fact, I could steal bases with vengeance. Which was useful since I often walked because I was so short that pitchers couldn't find my strike zone.

And then there was art. I had delusions of grandeur there too. No goal was too high—even the Sistine Chapel. Somehow I didn't have too many goals for my kids. My son had enough of his own (are kids having goals a guy thing?), while my daughter didn't seem to share so many of our ambitions. (Nevertheless, both kids have accomplished a lot.)

In our Zen Writing class, we read a poem about the poet’s hurt shoulder and how it impacted her rowing. I am reminded of all the things I can't do for one reason or another. Coming to terms with one limitations seem to be synomonous with getting old, or maybe I should say, getting older.  Of course, one of the biggies is that I'm beginning to realize that I can't live forever. But beyond that, there are many things I can't or won't do because I either can't or I realize the consequences.

I used to believe I could fix anything in a house. My father-in-law could do that and he'd instruct me step-by-step. And then he'd grunt when I'd do something wrong. Now that he's not in Austin, I've hired some people to do stuff and discovered that their skill set is way beyond mine.

I sometime think I know a little about computers, but when I think of the knowledge ofvarious friendly geeks whom I know, I don't stand chance in their world. But I putter along and manage to keep things working.

I turned out to be me, I suppose. Yes, I turned out to be me. It was probably my last resort. It was what I'd become if nothing else worked out.
Some people have extraordinary talents. They can do anything. Fortunately or unfortunately, I can just be me. I wish I would have known that many years ago. Then I might not have spent so much energy trying to be someone else.

—Kim Mosley

Life Guidance

(the prompt for the evening was ʻButterflyʼ by Robert Graves)

How DID you get from there to here?
By guess, yes, by guess is best.

By should you could
By right you might

There is no map
Itʼs not a snap

A sharp turn may burn
As I could only slowly learn

Flying crooked covers ground
By good fortune, earth is round

Every story is unique
Read aloud, but do not peek

Chapter chapter, line by line
flying straight, flying blind

How DO you get from here to there?

By guess, YES, by guess is best.

—Bill Metz

Summer night, cool water calls

Swimming fast as pulse quickens

Slow down...Calm Down
When fear enters mind.

Trees dance in the wind.

Grackles claim their place

on the wall--a place to rest.

Motion and rest.

Do I hear music far across the lake?

the band plays as nite falls.

Children laugh, a toddler falls;

a pause, then the screams.

The child turns to its mother.

Water wets, earth is solid,

each in its place,

like the front and back foot in walking.

Mercifully the sun sets

and the color of day softens.

Families drift away.

Swimmers stream along as

the water sounds.

Stroke, stroke, in breath & out breath

float—effortless—

no holding on, set free.

—Betty Gross

Snowed In

In my life I have several times
had the privilege to be snowed in.

To rise in the grey morning light
and look out the window to see
branches bent and coated with a
soft white covering of delicate
snow that tells you “be still!”.

I see the old green truck with a
white cake on its hood, its eyes
closed in deep slumber.

Stepping out to get more kindling for
the fire I hear, no, I feel the Intense
hush of the deep white blanket around
the cabin. Nothing is moving. It is a holy
moment.

Mother Nature has gently commanded
that I cease my human thrashings for a
day and surrender. She has said “Be still!
Contemplate. You have wood, you have
water, you have life. It Is enough for now.

You are snowed in.”

—Robert Porter

Inujima Island, Japan

“Listen to the Voices of Yesterday Like the Voices of Ancient Times”
by Yusuke Asai and Yuko Hasegawa (photo by Betty Gross)

Three Poems

Yellow Leaves, Blue Leaves 

Yellow and blue

blend green,

seen in leaves

in grass and vine

until dying time,

and yellow

is left behind.

What leaves

with the blue,

leaving yellow leaves

to wither, fade,

and fall?

That breath of air,

that respiring

returns to sky,

blue again

to rise, raising water.

Water blue

to condense

into its kind,

then gravitate to brown,

to ground and seed,

albino cotyledons

blue tinged, yellow grown

metamorphosing,

seed into leaf,

blue into yellow

yellow into green.

A Flight of Birds 

A flight of birds escapes

to the south under

flannel gray cloud waves,

a turn of nature I observe

in deep green reflections

traversing the automobile hood.

A cloud of feathers

festoons the antique rose,

sown in branches by a circling wind,

not blooms awaiting blossoming,

but pennants for a bird transmigrating.

Indian Spring

(In Houston, Not Where You Live)

spring fooled fall and

slipped among its foliage,

still lush from recent rain

washing winds, clear and cool

from cloudless blue,

rattle paper lantern blooms

bougainvillea blossoms quiver

carnelian on the deck,

magenta at the fence,

delicate pink azaleas

complement a hibiscus

coral corsage,

making old feel new —

too good to be true,

one week from another norther.

—Winston Derden is a former journalist, fiction writer, and poet who resides in Houston, Texas. His poetry appears in New Texas, the Houston Poetry Festival anthology 2010 and 2012, Words and Art, Harbinger Asylum, Pink-Eye Lemonade, Big River Poetry Review, and Illya’s Honey. He read on the 2013 Word Around Town tour and appears as a host and featured reader at Houston-area poetry readings.

Oh Almighty Oak

Oh Almighty Oak
With stately stillness, the branches from your trunk are like outstretched arms with palms facing upward.
This reminds me of that part in the Mass where the priests of my childhood stretched out their arms with palms facing towards heaven saying: 
“Through him, with him, in him, in the unity of the Holy Spirit, all glory and honor are yours almighty Father, forever and ever, Amen.”

Oh Almighty Oak
You have been ordained and are anything but ordinary.
You are a high priest with low deep roots, a sacred configuration of branches above and below growing in two directions.
As above so below.

Oh Almighty Oak
The large bowl water fountain near your trunk forms circular patterns as it pulsates--a liquid labyrinth.
The birds baptize themselves and fly up to your branches to sing your praises.
All glory and honor is yours Almighty Oak, forever and ever, Amen.

—R.B. Bojan

Intention

Slowing, stopping, looking deeply

Turning towards stillness

Sensing source, sensing center.

Taking care, giving care

I am here for you;

I hear you.

We are here in the present moment. We have arrived.

So let us just sit back and let the breath lead us.

Let us just be here.

Let us just be aware.

Let us just be.


—R.B. Bojan

Centennial Rib Cage Oak Tree

The spreading wings of the centennial rib cage oak tree,

Planted prior to the house existing in an embryonic dream cluster,

Shelters paisley winged doves who occasionally cool off

In the bubbling brook, green moss stone rippled birdbath.

A green inch worm hovers,

Hangs as in a lotus position in the expansive undercurrent,

Suspended, absorbs the animated conversation of the two gardeners

Discussing the merits of creativity and how it must be

Carefully sustained in order to produce the ripened blossom

And meaningful tasting fruit, like the green leaf vegetables

Maturing in the deep dug adjacent plot.

—Rupert Hopkins

Ordaining the Big Oak Tree

We ordained the big oak tree tonight. I felt a little funny about being part of that ceremony. That beautiful old oak tree is kind of like a wood Buddha from the 12th century. It has been around far longer that we have, and has experienced many persuasions over the century(s) that it has lived.

What about its choice? Is this like the Mormons baptizing everyone and their brother? Do we have that right to determine what someone should believe? Should we even baptize a child? Are we regulating its mind before it has the ability to say boo?

Photo by Scott Shaevel

Maybe I could sneak over to the tree some night and defrock it. I kind of liked the lack of preferences of that tree. How it reaches out in a myriad of directions giving love to all sentient beings, even those in a blade of grass mentioned in the sutra that we read at the ordination. Maybe, just maybe, that is what the tree is contemplating when it isn't struggling with challenging elements and people.

When I read this to my Zen Writing group, Bill pointed out that when the Zen center moved into our current temple that they saw that the tree was dying and both petitioned the city to move a sidewalk and changed the landscaping to give the tree more water. I started to feel that the tree might now have some major affinity with Zen. I hope so.

After our meeting, I spoke with Scott about the tree. He suggested that it might be a Buddhist for a while, but then, when its tenants change, it might adopt another persuasion. That sounds good to me.

This morning I found a paper on tree ordination in Thailand: http://tinyurl.com/m5tqzl9 Here is the abstract of the paper:

“Abstract: The symbolic ordination of trees as monks in Thailand is widely perceived in Western scholarship to be proof of the power of Buddhism to spur ecological thought. However, a closer analysis of tree ordination demonstrates that it is not primarily about Buddhist teaching, but rather is an invented tradition based on the sanctity of Thai Buddhist symbols as well as those of spirit worship and the monarchy. Tree ordinations performed by non-Buddhist minorities in Thailand do not demonstrate a religious commitment but rather a political one.”

In retrospect, I like that we ordained the tree. We take for granted much of our environment that treats us so well.

Photo by Scott Shaevel

Loving Things Equally

My father was able to love many things equally. He loved so many things that we had a two car garage that never had a car in it.

As a boy I would clamber around in the dark and dust and find things like ancient baseball gloves or WWII ribbons or patches. When I would trot something out, my father would tell me the story behind it, giving me glimpses into his life. The baseball glove for, instance, was his when he was young and athletic, wanting to try out for a team, but his father, my grandfather, who was a Methodist minister, forbade him because gambling had been associated with baseball and he didn’t want my father around it.

He still had his army uniform and mess kit from WWII, and he would tell me about his experiences of basic training and his different jobs as a staff sergeant. He was never in combat but saw a lot of the states by train while escorting AWOL soldiers back to their bases.

Each item had a story, even the old furniture of long dead relatives.

As he lay close to death in a hospital bed, he looked at me and said, “You know, I never got to clean the garage.” He was so sincerely regretful that I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

Now my garage is a museum of my past, my kid’s past, and, yes, even his past. I still have his uniform, some letters he wrote to my mother before they were married and his old slide projectors that he would use to torment us by showing vacation pictures on a sheet tacked on the dining room wall.

But you know, I can get a car in my garage-my wife’s!

—Robert Porter

For Now

Relaxed and sipping tea

                                    I ponder

                                                 thoughts of the day

                                                                                while

                                                                                        they

                                                                                              fall

                                                                                                   randomly

                                                                                    like

                                                                                         silent

                                                                          snowflake

                                                              cushions

                                                                           to the                                     

                                                                                     ground

where they mix

                       with

                              cushioned thoughts from the past.

I shed my shoes

                         and

                              walk across them

                                                        feeling their

                                                                           softness

                                                                                        and

                                                                               gentle massage

and

      I am assured

                          this                            

                               is

                                 my

                                    path

                                          for

                                              now.

                                                                                                 For Now 

                                                                                                 —karen smith

                                                                                                 2014

Winter Soup

Running in from outside, breathless and pink cheeked,
The girl holds the bowl of soup in two small hands.
Her chilled face tingles in the rising savory steam.
Closing her eyes, she drinks deep the golden miso.
“Yum,” she says, “it warms me all the way to my toes.”
In a swift, graceful moment, she puts down the bowl
And flies out the door to an ice crystal world.

The black shadows of memory draw lines over my mood.
A white winter sun outside is high and cold.
Sitting at the kitchen table, bundled up,
I look out the window to the hard frozen ground.
The soup tastes salty and bland and leaves me still empty.
Blowing on my fingers, I think, “When did I forget how to play?”
“How did I learn to feel cold in winter?”

—G. Elizabeth Law