Poems by Jerry Bolick (page 2) ...

More Poems by Jerry Bolick 

A nembutsu poem, for Al Bloom 

There's nothing 
quite like home. 
The door open 
to sounds and smells, 
to shadows and hues 
as close as skin; 
at times, to the soft comfort 
of longing. 

The door open, 
home works. 
It works every time, 
for every need, 
in every way, 
even in the dark. 

Traveling 
different roads 
works too, 
cause we all have home. 

See, there, as you step: 
the path, the gate, the door. 


Granddaughter, while you were sleeping... 

I brought you with me this morning, early. 
Light was there, but sun remained silent. 
Moon watched, showing only part of its face. 

I stopped and cupped a flower; 
its petals, almost imperceptibly, 
whispered cool damp into my palm. 

Encouraged, I spoke your name to the mountain, 
aloud, along the path, 
into butter sweet grasses, 
to the morning air, and again. 
Birds demur at such times; 
but they always hear. 

We breathed and remembered the waiting. 

As is only fitting, sun comes in its own time and in many voices. 
The blessing came first to my turned shoulders, 
then in spreading gold across the hills 
in new day: 

India Rose. 

Where time lives... 

I followed time the other day. 
You know how it is 
when you think you've forgotten. 
Well, actually, it goes home. 
And you can follow. 
Love grows there. 

Like I said, it was as if 
I'd forgotten, kind of sitting there, 
and I caught it 
resting just on the edge of shifting light, 
in the turn and flutter of leaves, a swaying branch. 
It lives too in the clunk of plates 
set on the table, the bending waist, 
out-stretched arm, in the release 
of finger tips. 

Totally indiscriminate, 
I found it on my own lips 
and on yours too, in our voices 
and even in the words rolling off 
into new ideas 
and into that silence 
just above skin browning in the sun. 

It was there 
in shuffling bare feet, 
a bent knee, in a touch, a returned gaze 
and in the quickening breath 
before tears. 
Oh, and in smiling eyes too. 

So I followed it home. 
You know, you can do that. 
It's a place where love grows. 
Where time lives. 

Haiku retreat at Jikoji Zen Center Retreat,
Los  Gatos, CA.

Hillside grasses wave
to winds shushing the pines.
The sun wants quiet.

Crows call from nowhere.
The woman stands in silence,
hearing haiku.

Along the shady trail
sun splashes browned leaves
to gold.

Before the sun’s reach, moon
---blue shadows
               through sheer white.

Manure on the trail
but no flies, in this shade
bay leaves scent my fingers.

Pulling out his map
the bicycle rider stands
still in the cross roads.

Sitting at the wall
mind washed white with breathing, here
I leave home

Remembering dreams
of waking, fall’s advancing
fog lifts my eyes.

coming upon
Roshi’s memorial -- the jays
are silent

On this morning’s darkened streets
puddles -- stepping over
the moon.