In the Middle

Inspired by “How I would paint happiness” by Lisel Mueller,

and “I am out with lanterns, looking for myself” by Emily Dickenson,

and “The start of something” by Stuart Dybek

I was born in the middle of something,

Something that had been going on long before me.

I am assuming that whatever it is

will continue long after me.

I hope that I didn’t start this mess,

but maybe I can help to end it.

Perhaps it’s just a matter of a change in attitude,

a change in perspective.

Maybe, just maybe, I can be the difference

and be the beginning of something new,

something real and good.

But first, I must find myself,

lost in the darkness, I am,

but with you as my lantern, 

perhaps I can find my way again.

That would make me happy, 

like cherry blossoms in spring,

set loose by a sudden breeze,

each petal settling gently in

the palm of my hand.

And suddenly, there I was.

—Paul Causey

Poem for Bruce Linton and Appamada Friends

I take refuge in the sound.

Sounds that enter a fluid filled snail shell in our heads

pluck the nerves of our harp strings.

Sometimes, too much sound comes crashing in,

destroys the strings.

So, I take refuge in my strings that sing still.

I take refuge in the ducks palavering on muddied pond.

I take refuge in the bird calls welcoming a rest from sun.

I take refuge in the sigh of the runner stopping on the lane.

I take refuge in the songs of India emanating from the radio in the refugees’ hands.

I take refuge in the rush of water under the scurrying bellies of ducks,

in the gravel of the paths beneath our feet,

in the coded conversation of twin brothers walking by,

the leaves of trees whispering messages in the wind,

the roar of far-off traffic blaring by,

the laughter of the little girl throwing breadcrumbs to the chattering ducks,

the man’s hand patting the bark of the dying tree,

the creaks of my knees.

I take refuge that the ringing in my head is briefly veiled by the mist of outside sounds.

I take refuge in the heat in the spray of garden hose against our feet,

in the press of air against my skin,

in flapping of a cormorant’s wings.

I take refuge that none of this will last.

But it feels so good to be here, now, with you.

—Emily Romano

the start of something

the start of something always seems somehow

to only be new moments in perfect fit 

with everything already full grown,

softening belief that it is fate

which informs my life,

and the more I consider

such paths of inevitable destiny

the more I feel that fate 

makes plans only in my absence.

so thankfully I can say 

starting means continuing to make peace 

with this arguable dance of jurisprudence

that doesn’t offer freedom in any form.

which means I buckle up my dancing shoes 

on my feet of clay

upping the ante of being seen

dancing on water like a substitute savior,

and sinking,

realizing that nothing

not even the wet 

can be fully known

so no more starting 

but staying 

with the Zen master’s advice

that “when in doubt

turn to curiosity.”

enjoy the world that is a dream

and barely a description of a truth

that everything which will happen

happens today,

with all things arising

all at once

in an intimacy of essence.

—Ed Sancious

In the Silt

Inside there is a folded place.

It opens its wings

as the two sides of a shell,

a clam

or the bone white

angel shell, elegant

and ribbed.

Inside that place, hidden

dark in the silt of this beach,

a grief. 

It bubbles in the wash of my gaze:

a long-ago sadness,

a new one. 

Things were hard

and there was nothing to be done.

Things are still hard.

There is little to be done.

I let the bright-eyed mind

trace the old scar

and I feel the tremble.

Here you are, I say.

I am with you.

—Sarah Webb

Butterfly

As the butterfly discovers the ending is not like the 

beginning. We crawl towards our endings from 

place, friend, and dream. Did the butterfly miss 

his silk cocoon. Did it regret silence? The cramped 

space? After I left my Mother’s warmth, found 

betrayal like the butterfly who gains flight and loses 

silence my beginning safer lighter than light. 

—Joan Canby

“Chickadee”

Two swans perform a magic act 

behind a beaver dam.

Now you see them, now you don’t.

The glowing gold of sunset nestled to horizon.

Summer’s sweat chilled our necks, signaled time

walk back,

past the majestic white birch 

lounging like a Mata Hari against the elder elm. Glowing roots mixed dizzy into earth. 

Mom limped ahead, afraid of the coming night.

 I strayed behind and waited for a sign.

Then came the quiet flutter 

chickadee wings. 

One by one they leaped from seed to seed. 

Whatever one had missed the next one snapped 

like grape pickers in California fields. Except 

these chickadees picked seed for no one 

but themselves. 

Maybe because I stood still and quiet 

they paid me no mind. 

They leapt from the right, pod to pod,

 crossed the trail so close I could feel 

small wing’s wind on skin,

on to the pods to the left towards the water,

to the magic of the swans. 

Acrobatic little balls of fluff, sometimes upright bouncing on the tightrope of a stem, 

sometimes upside down,

snatching sweetest treats of a pod bowing down back to the earth from where it first sprung.

I stood in twilight’s breeze, listened 

to the distant stories: 

birds settling down for the night, 

the mixing of the water, 

the trills of frogs, 

winged hum of bugs, and, in between, 

soft landings of the chickedees leap to 

leap in line. 

It’s all you give for priceless thrill:

wait in stillness and silence,

the earth knows what to do.

—Emily Romano

Looking At Wild Cherry Trees

not that words will always fail,

but why does the tongue insist

that language with syllables and consonants

is able and willing to test

what should only be known as divine?

this fullness of emptiness

is normal 

at best

when just short of understanding.

not teasing time

to query the essence of source,

but holding wonder

at the shape of creation’s outcomes.

so I hold this as ambition…

to be a partner in silence

to treasure this alibi of form.

—Ed Sancious

Smile!

— Kim Mosley 

Time Changes Everything

Time changes everything,

and it also stays the same -

in crystalline perfection.

But grand hands hold the

infinite crystal,

between massive, imaginary,

and endlessly delicate, illusory

fingers …

slowly turning the crystal

playfully,

examining the view from

different combinations of the

clusters and varieties of

facets … turning, turning, turning

… with continued interest in

the variety of views.

This crystal was birthed from

nothing, in illusory time, so

despite the inevitable return to

the empty state, the

evolution, the progress,

that continues, aids

the observer, turning

the stone.

And when energy settles

and boredom sets in,

shifts occur,

changing every facet …

like endless math,

and play,

and joy …

an amusing experience,

like a ride … or a show

on a screen, with the

observer riding the waves,

each like a new soundtrack,

a new book …

on and on

Variety, coexistent with

unity … possibly due to

the variety of dimensions

coexisting but appearing

separate due to varieties

in conscious perception …

Isn’t it grand.

—Lucy Lenoir

Untitled

Right now,

sitting by the Bay,

the

 tide whispers my contentment.

Noodle hunts for smells in the grasses

and the succulents that

grow above the breakwater.

Stones, like Buddhas, piled up

to meet the oncoming tide.

I swear, one vertical stone

looks like Bodhidharma!

And here I am—

sun on my face,

the sea-salt wind coming

off the Bay,

indulging myself in a delicious

cup of coffee,

writing these words.

How did I end up

approaching 75 years

living in

this floating world?

—Bruce Linton

“Bird”

“I’ll slit your throat while you sleep, son”

So prophesized the whiskey-clouded beast.

So spun the wheels 

in the attic of the 5-year-old boy.

Eyes shuttered shut, he wraps moth-feasted sheets 

tight around his sweaty neck, the sweetest noose.

He doesn’t know what else to do.

He isolates in the space that follows the stumbling tread on creaky stairs.

Sincere efforts work to counteract this doom.

A Chicago winter in December, 1949

flutters her snowflaked tresses through the walls, blankets the boy in numb.

While in New York, in 1945, Charlie Parker’s fingers raced along a saxophone,

such that now, in 1949,

a Be-Bop blanket of sound bounces from a radio, flies through the air.

This, too,

armors the shivering boy,

such that when the beast (finally) dies,

the boy becomes a man, thawed from the freeze, ready for flight.

—Emily Romano

Bare Into the World

The things I think I know  

are old and tired, mostly.  

Sneakers battered by long days,  

soles splitting, collapsing sides.

The once-white long since  

draggled through the filth  

of urban concrete and  

wetly muddened fields.  

Still, I grapple them on.  

I make them my feet.  

They shape the ways I wobble  

in the world. Lurch. Leave my  

staggered indentations, prints  

declaring, “I have touched this place.”  

Yet, like the shapes they press  

into my paths, they are askew.

How long has it been since I  

squished my arches into the  

spring of moss, tickle of fronds,  

earth ionized by rain?  

Since I went bare into the world?  

Sending my inner heart to  

my soles and closing  

eyes, connecting,  

as with roots,  

to a single  

moment of evanescence  

and arising, decomposition  

and the revelations of tiny birds?

—Geneve Gil

Whispers by the Bay

We often listen to bad advice,

Meaningful words spoken and written

By which we hope to gain some understanding

Of the deep chaos that our lives present—

If you ever choose to consider its meaning…

I have sought, listened, and read

Many of those I hoped knew so much more than I did.

Now, sitting here by the Bay,

My silly little mongrel dog next to me

On our morning bench.

The sea calmly reaches out to the rocks below.

Nearby, the beach is empty of people.

How is it that I found this answer?

Just as the sun rises and warms my bones,

A scent of saltwater— beside me,

my little dog.

—Bruce Linton

Zen Commentary on  Whispers by the Bay (generated by Chat GPT – AI)

This poem illuminates Zen practice: the journey from seeking to stillness, from striving for answers to simply sitting with what is. It explores the movement from external searching to internal realization, reminding us that the most profound answers are not found in words, but in silence and presence.

The opening lines acknowledge the human tendency to seek guidance, to grasp for meaning amidst life’s chaos. In Zen, this grasping is often seen as a barrier—an effort to impose order on something inherently fluid and mysterious. The lines suggest a recognition of this: the advice, the words, the written teachings—all attempts to intellectualize what can only be experienced directly.

Yet, the poem turns from seeking to being.  Sitting here by the Bay,  you are no longer reaching outward but resting in the simplicity of the present. This sitting, with your  silly little mongrel dog  by your side, is itself the teaching. Zen often points us to what is already here—beyond words, beyond understanding, in the immediacy of the moment. Your  morning bench  becomes a dharma seat, where the great truths of life unfold without effort.

The imagery of the  sea calmly reaching out to the rocks  mirrors the movement of the mind in meditation. The chaos of seeking subsides, and the calm rhythm of presence emerges. The  empty beach  symbolizes a clearing away, a spaciousness in which the truth can reveal itself. In Zen, this emptiness is not void but fullness, the fertile ground of awakening.

The question,  How is it that I found this answer?  is a koan—a question without a logical resolution, pointing the reader back to their own direct experience. The answer is not something to be grasped or articulated; it is simply what is. The  sun rising to warm your bones,  the  scent of saltwater,  the quiet companionship of your little dog—all of these are the answer. Nothing needs to be added, nothing needs to be taken away.

—Bruce Linton