1492 sgi

an exiled buddha
trudging in snow— a sutra
burning deep within



living in a house
of nine small rooms
then stepping outside
into bright sunshine–
our buddha nature

(Paraphrase of Daisaku Ikeda,
The Wisdom of the Lotus Sutra, vol. 4)



arms full of giggling
daughters, he leads us
in evening prayers



buddha lives in my
mirror– not in a garden
— not in a temple


Bullfrog 4/26/15

eyes shut to beauty

in a sea of bright lotus

bullfrog sings the blues


Young Son

Like a monkey off he runs

When the mother calls him

To chant for two minutes.

He leaps away, his karma

In hot pursuit to reveal

Bodhisattva Unsurpassed

Ripening within him.


Gift of Itself

Life makes Life a simple gift,
wraps in parable and myth
a thing not so large it cannot
fit into a single lotus seed;
not so small it couldn’t bulge
and expand the cosmos,
not so near it does not shine
on numberless galaxies beyond sight
not so far its breath doesn’t
touch your ear on a warm night

all around and flowing within us
the heart’s blood of waking buddhas
who open their eyes laughing,
having dreamt we are glasses of water
deep in wondrous, rhythmic seas



The Hoover Sutra

Karma is a big living room rug
That looks okay, clean enough
Can wait another month or so.
But when you finally vacuum it
The see-through chamber teems
With feral herds of dust bunnies,
An aggregate of one’s thoughts,
Words and deeds. We all wonder
Where does that all come from?
Has it something to do with me?


Words at a Funeral

from dust to atom
and neutron to quark
Life blossoms forth;
karma is the spark