Slices of Time after Time
This webpage has been moved to:
At the Edges of the West, Volume 1
U.S. Highighway 101 and 1
Pacific Coast Highway
Memories of Pacific Coast Places
California, Oregon, Washington, British Columbia
Rhymed Verse, Free Verse, Haiku, Tanka
Beachcombing, Travel, Insights
Selections from At the Edges of the West
Stepping Over Epiphanies
Affecting all the molecules in me
the pull of the moon and sea
feeling the call to walk the shore
Smiled, opened the door
Tides and time sent signals to me
to step nimbly over epiphanies
seen flipped over in the turning sands
Surprised, opened my hands
Waiting for nobody but me
a fleck of cold fire
flung out on this fleck of space
Sang out, loved this place
Shore pines paint a background scene
short stubby crooked trees
swaying gently in the salty breeze
Unruffled, I found tranquility
Stunned by the crisp clean colors
savoring the scents of the sea
enchanted by the incessant singing surf
Awakened, a mystical reverie
Pointing to the ineffable realization of
insights known to me alone
erupted up from our sensory realities
Profound, not foreknown
Such awakenings come and go
sometimes fast or sometimes slow
unpredictable visions playing peekaboo
Pausing, not thinking too
Slogging up and down the dunes
breathing hard on Que
one step up, a half-step back
Stopping, quite a view
A romantic couple passes me
by on the thin path through sea grass;
we nod, mumble "hello", step aside
Thinking, will love last
What I see is painted by me
created for free in a brain for me
sucked from the breasts of reality
Pondering, real or illusory
I practiced outside today
the Practice of the Outside Way
I figured a few things out
Understanding, what Place's say
Tip toeing over bull kelp strands
stepping on broken shells
avoiding the driftwood piles ever moving
Listening, a virtual foghorn knells
A friendly dog off-leash comes to me
seeking a gentle pat and pet
desiring a kind human face to see
Laughing, she was wet
My grand daughter and I once walked
beside an Oregon dune
not very long ago it seemed to us
Remembing, gone too soon
A Fork in the Crypto Road
We stopped for coffee in Forks WA one day
on the way to Crescent Lake’s forest shade.
The barista smiled, polite, earned a tip.
We sipped and talked about Rips in Time,
splittings, divergences, separations between
Crypto-beings versus real creatures we can find.
Cryptozoology, not bitcom crypto schemes, but
plenty of amazing pseudo-science scuttlebutt.
Yes, Cryptids living on the Quillayute River
or on its incoming Bogachiel or Sol Duc streams.
Or, a Chupacabra in La Push.
Or, Big Foot and Little Foot
crossing Hwy 101 in the dark.
Forks pretends to host Vampires,
teenage blood suckers on the night prowl,
teenage Werewolves howling, running fast,
Humans afraid of these creatures’ wrath.
Human, not so human, called by the Night,
confused, resisting, teenagers losing the fight
against inner demons and lusty needs
and ordinary life with real human beings.
Many beings eat, fight and kill to survive,
wily, tricky, stealthy, with a hunter’s pride.
The Horned God has history on his side.
Hunger keeps us all on the Edge,
ready to amorally pounce from a hedge
and slaughter or harvest creatures just ahead.
We are all Vampires
rising from the dead. Its said,
Living and dying scenes
are often painted in Vivid Red.
Books and movies started it all,
now Fork’s stores sell
Vampire and Werewolf dolls.
Motel rooms are decorated in Twilight themes.
Crypto-Reality, fantasies, fictions,
magical scenes.
Drawing thousands of titillated tourists here.
Happy Forkers counting more dollars there.
Its said that
Big Foot roams the nearby lush Hoh woods
seeking a lean Sasquatch Lady with big boobs.
She temporarily hides her alluring charms
from clumsy Big Foot’s fingers and arms,
Carrying a Sasquatch-Yeti baby in her arms.
Why do we often picture and portray
Big Foot as lonely male, a hairy ugly guy,
a grumpy solitary fellow,
without a female, family, friend,
or clan at his side?
And, we have Paul Bunyan, The Logger Man,
a Machine of a Man, with Babe, his Blue Ox,
dragging logs from the land; plundering
forests till their gone, then moving on.
Nowadays, from Quinault firs
to Humboldt coastal mountain pines,
diesel logging trucks packed full are the rule.
There's a huge statue of Paul the Lumberjack
his axe and ox, in Requia-Klamath CA,
at the Trees of Mystery,
along Highway 101 to this very day.
I spotted Big Foot drinking coffee
with Paul Bunyan and a Vampire
in a cozy Eureka Starbucks Cafe.
Nobody was fazed.
Salinas Valley on the El Camino Real
In the early days, El Camino Real, circa 1760,
The Royal Road,
a long twisting 600 mile dirt road between
San Diego and Sonoma.
The King's Road to 21 Missions,
pueblos, farms, ranches, presidios.
The first version of US 101,
via the Southern Seaside Route
in the California Sun,
crossing by clear rivers that still all year run.
Rolling on 101, through the Salinas Valley,
in 2001, eucalyptus trees still lined the roadway.
By the Fields of Heaven in the
Spring Sun, sweating;
green lettuce gleaming,
Rows of carts with boxed carrots, flowers,
tomatoes, celery, greens;
Lines of field hands hard at work
picking rose red radishes
and peppers so sweet,
stopping on schedules to drink,
and chat, and rest, and eat.
Steinbeck's homelands,
the Pastures of Heaven,
scattered around with dusty farm towns:
Atascadero, Paso Robles, Nacimento,
San Lucas, Greenfield, Salinas,
Gilroy, Soledad, Gonzales;
home of strawberries, tomatoes, flowers,
celery, spinach, lettuce and garlic.
The Salad Bowl of the Nation,
East of Eden,
Home of the hardworking forgiven sons.
Valle de Salinas:
Hispanic Haven, Tortilla Flats,
children soccering in the fields,
or reading in the local schools,
everyone ready for rodeos and fun festivals,
food, dancing, laughter, romances, tequila, beer.
Hungover workers picking
celantro, flores, lechuga, tomate,
ajo, alcachofa, uvas ...
while walking above other irrigated rows,
while children play at recess,
while women cook fine meals.
Rio de Salinas:
marsh lands, hidden streams, shallow sloughs;
riverside parks for picnics, soccer, baseball,
boats flowing slowly into Monterey Bay,
sitting in the eucalyptus tree's shade.;
Both Mice and Men grasping for straws,
swallowed by the Upside-Down River's Laws.
The wines of Paso Robles,
tangled my tongue.
Big Bold Reds,
Cabernet Sauvignon:
Unspoken tastes, bottles of dreams,
glasses of memories, gulps of reality.
Green vineyards, as far as I can see.
The Bottom Line
"Caress the detail, the divine detail."
- Vladimir Nabokov
“We think in generalities, but we live in details.”
- W. H. Auden
"The idea of one overbearing truth is exhausted."
- Thomas Mann
“A profound attention to the details of this world.”
- George Levine
“Cherish the minutes heureuses.”
- Charles Baudelaire
“The vast and unsuspected reality of small things
- Robert Nozick
“We are better satisfied in particulars.”
- Wallace Stevens
"God is in the details." - Mies Van Der Rohe
“Details are all there are.” - Maezumi Roshi
“Focus on small worlds of order.” - Paul Valery
“No ideas but in things." - William Carlos Williams
"To study the self is to forget the self.
To forget the self is to be enlightened
By the ten thousand things."
- Zen Master Dogen
Flowers in the Sky
Drifting snowflakes covered me,
to show us how January Reigns
by frozen filigree or chilly rain
falling on Mt. Olympus by the sea.
Retreating to my cold canvas hut,
resigned to read and sip tea;
covered up in dry warm wool,
thick blanket over my knees.
Opened up a classic Soto Zen
tome to read: Master Dogen's
"Treasury of the True Dharma Eye"
"Moon in a Dewdrop: Shobogenzo."
"Flowers in Space: Kuge."
Phenomena actualized,
Everywhere, All the Time.
On the ground, in the sky,
in my Eyes, in my Mind;.
Noumena left unspecified.
My False Eyes saw, creatively,
mirrored back and forth by me,
distorted by my Inner Visions,
seeing metaphors strive
to find meaning in Dogen's
Echizen Temple rooted Zen mind.
I wrote:
In a flaming burst,
they kiss the earth,
shout to the sky:
"White! Pink! Yellow!"
Orchards of plums and peaches,
Acres of mustard-greens.
The Flowers of Time!
From the Ten Directions:
Spring brings on flowers,
Flowers bring on Spring.
Coming, here, gone:
Flowers in the Sky.
In the blink of one false eye,
In the blink of One True Eye,
Flowers in the empty sky;
Shimmering, scented ... gone,
Gone, gone, gone far beyond
Their seeds of arising.
But, staying, Here-Now,
A Great Marvel of Manifestation.
Bodhisattva's - for the Bees.
Soil, sea, sun, rain, sky ...
Eight Elements embracing,
Intertwined in mind.
Unfathomable Matrix;
Scaffolds on scaffolds
Grounded in Otherness.
Below seeds, flowers, leaves,
stems, roots ...
Below wet cells embraced,
Below atoms dancing on Energy...
Deeper and deeper below into
What? A Plenitude, a sacredness.
Emptiness in full bloom.
Above seeds, flowers, leaves,
stems, roots, fruits
Above water, soil, roots, branches,
Above the steams, lakes, and Sea,
Above sensing, feeling, working,
thinking ...
Higher and higher out towards
What?
"Vast emptiness, nothing holy."
Flowers in the sky.
Leaping from the Ledge of Infinite Regress,
The Unmoved Mover fell into Formlessness:
Pure silence echoed between the galaxies,
Eons of eons vanished in a second,
Withered trees bloomed in fires,
The Oceans covered all the Land,
Polar mountains melted, rivers went dry,
Thusness scattered in sixty directions,
Space became Time, time became things.
Black Holes filled with Nirvana,
A billion samadhi mirrors shattered,
Galaxies snuggled within a single skull,
Many became One, One only, only One.
Then,
the Divine Illuminatrix in All Beings
Opened Her clouded Eye, to see:
Flowers in the Sky.
He sat for weeks under the Bodhi Tree
Before the morning sun Opened his Eyes;
Lotus blossoms fell from the sky.
She walked through the Gateless Gate,
Upright, staff in hand;
Rhododendrons flowered by the Sea,
Plum blossoms opened across the land.
She sat and sat,
Till yea was nay, and nay was yea;
While roses bloomed on day by day.
Gnawing on his koan bone,
Suddenly, the taste of insight;
Amid seagrasses on the dunes,
Blue flowers amidst the grave sites.
Illusions, delusions, foolishness:
Those flowers falling from the sky.
Only our Mind's Eyes
Wishing for otherwise;
As always, embracing fertile lies.
Surfing daydreams of the past,
Spinning fictions over facts;
Myth making, playful, eager to act,
Seeing what we want to see,
Seeking, yea saying, seeding,
giving it a try.
Having faith in Flowers in the Sky.
These yellow poppies reveal time,
These sweet razor clams taste time,
These brown seeds generate time.
The seashells speak of past time.
These gray leafless trees show time.
The Earth is Time; the Sky is Time.
And the five fingers of one black hand hold time,
And the blinking of two blue eyes cry time.
The dirty garden hoe and hoses water time,
The fishing line drops to the bottom of time,
And greasy tractor gears work time.
The snows on Mt. Ranier glacier time,
Moving Reedsport sand dunes cover time,
Cold ocean waves at Oceanside cut time,
Hood Canal ravens break open time,
The onion seedlings in Salinas sweeten time,
The roaring Feather River rapids erode time;
Ventura flower fields color time.
Remembering is time, forgetting is time.
Black lines of scripture tell times,
Great and small doubts reveal time,
Hungry ghosts and naked demons are time,
Newborn Gods were conceived in time.
Death is time, and conception is time.
Vulgar time, broken time,
Our time, space-time, in time,
The Right time, before time, Sublime time,
Standard time, beyond time, past time.
DreamTime of a still body-mind is time.
Time and Time again,
Explaining All and not
explaining any-thing.
From Being-Lost, with no abode,
selfless, bone dry;
Comes the time-Now
for the enlightened cry:
"Flowers in the Sky!"
The Arrows of Time
never rest,
moving forward unrelenting
irreversible:
from hot towards cold
from stream to Sea
from organized to disorganized
from past to future
from moving towards stillness
from life towards death.
Or,
so it seems,
to us,
with our little particulars,
with our home brew views,
with our social habits a must.
The Spiderwebs of Time
are legion
multitudes of nows and thens;
Uncountable heres and theres
unhitched
from any eternal present
everywhere.
To Dance at the Still Point
Of the Time beyond time,
Beyond pasts, within futures,
this Moment
Now and forever, beyond
ordinary minds.
Imagine what the Will can Do,
Cannot do, will not do.
Imagine more.
Please,
remove the offered flowers
from the great stone Buddha's hands,
before he's blown up at Bamiyan;
and the dust and stones flying high,
Hide the flowers in the sky.
The Buddha raised one flower
Sharing a silent sign;
Maha-Kasyapa smiled,
Keeping an open mind.
Truly eye to eye, free and kind,
Outside any scriptures, beyond any lies;
Fresh flowers in a sunny sky.
Flower petals in the sky.
We stroll in rose gardens, and Love.
Precious flowers in the sky.
Speechless, Master Dogen stared,
Shivering in a turning white world
Raising cold dawn moons.
Bright white millions on millions
Of drifting flowery flakes
Fell fast from the Echizen sky.
Ice pure, elemental, quintessential
Wet, imperfect, flowing time
Packed by the hour, deeper,
Deeper down to Winter's core.
The Temple of Eternal Peace creaked,
Snowflakes gathered on Dogen's robe,
One icy crystal streaked the True Eye
Glimpsing into Itself;
Another transmission:
Lovely flowers in the Sky.
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Garofalo.
Green Way Research, Vancouver, Washington.
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