The Feral Poet likes to say, “If you meet the Buddha on the beach, watch your surfboard.”  We are not sure what he means by that, but it is typical of his enigmatic, “can’t pin me down” nature.  He showed up unexpectedly in the Post offices recently, and after several minutes of trying to engage him in normal conversation, we gave up and asked if he had anything new to offer for his Sunday page.  He demurred, (his word,) then pulled these few pages from a Gap messenger bag and handed them over.  As usual, we were grateful and relieved.  Deadlines are anathema (our word) to the Feral Poet, which, of course, is part of his charm.

Sitting, Still

delicate balance:
if you invest in sitting
it owns you
if you don’t
you owe everything

seated,
the masters knew
to keep moving.

* * *

On Towel Pond

With sunset
comes the last white flight
of egrets
and the sound of frogs
in the places it is already dark.

My grandfather, asleep
for hours with his head
in the crook of his arm,
awakes and dries his face
on the pond.

* * *

No Trace

This is my hermitage:
work to forget self,
a simple house,
stretch of wild ocean
at the door.

All these changing clouds.
Bodhisattvas pass by
without stopping;
artisans, the learned,
and famous, maybe,
who knows?

I am blending in
like smoke.  Soon
there will be no trace.

* * *

Three Egrets

Three egrets rise
against distant storm clouds
over pasture.

Fundamentally
there is no white
gray or green.  Still

three egrets rise
against distant storm clouds
over pasture.

* * *

Summer Storm

A storm moves
across the summer sky.
There are periodic
bursts of light
revealing huge cloud men
with bulbous bodies
and thick wild hair.

A duck makes a vee
on the speckled water
where it is starting to rain.

One of the giant men
is showing the others
how to fart
through a bellows.
They are taking his picture.

* * *