The Roots of Caring
If we could see the truth that’s always there,
We’d be kind pacifists. We’d care.
The Family Business
It was, for us, rummage sales,
Second-hand stores.
My grandmother and all her sisters had them.
When we went Back East,
As we used to say,
We discovered that my Aunt Ethel,
(she, a great beauty in her youth),
and her son, Claude, both worked in one.
and my Aunt Rose Conklin,
Had Conklin’s Resale.
But the one I remember most
Was my Uncle Ship’s House of Bargains,
Only a couple blocks from our house,
In Modesto. It was he who taught us
How to disguise the
worn part of a sofa with a crayon.
And that anything with keyholes should
Always be referred to as antique.
Regardless of its age.
The Consolation of Reality
A loveliness sometimes breaks though,
There’s nothing anyone can do.
It’s just the way that all things pass,
We cannot summon it. Alas.
But here’s the fun part, if we dare,
Though not perceived, it’s always there.
And that's the greatest consolation,
In any kind of situation.
My Aunt and Uncle
A fortune teller
Once told my grandmother
That she would have
Five bye-eyed boys.
This came true.
My Uncle Norman was the second one.
My father was the third.
We lived a few blocks from
My aunt and uncle for a long time.
They were ultimately married
More than seventy years.
They probably could not remember
What life was like without
Being married to each other.
They were mostly disappointed in their descendants.
But they did not
have the New Deal
like they did.
They loved them anyway.
Achan Chah
Folks thought you
didn’t display sufficient
Gratitude for the many
Gifts they brought you.
But this was not the case.
Like all who see the deep truth
Of impermanence
You said, “It’s already
Broken for me.”
And you went on your way,
With the gratitude appropriate
To impermanence.
Zazen
Sit still and quiet every day,
With no agenda, as they say.
Not preferring war or peace.
No equanimity. No release.
It’s just that it is always there,
it doesn’t vanish in the air.
And when we get that it is true,
It’s everywhere you look, then, too,
Still we return to form’ly sit,
Not for ourselves (oh, just a bit)
It’s for the ones we love, forsooth.
May sentient beings know the truth.
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