SIX WORDS OF ADVICE
by Tilopa


Let go of what has passed

Let go of what may come

Let go of what is happening now

Don’t try to figure anything out

Don’t try to make anything happen

Relax, right now, and rest

I WOULD BUY
by Cathy Cain

I would buy stock in the sunrise.

I would buy Bushels of breeze, bird song,
clouds, blue sky. 

I would buy Shares in clean air,
pure water, food,
health, comfort, and shelter. 

I would buy Shipping yards weighted
with living forests, prairies, peace,
and coffee, extra hot. 

I would buy A cargo plane heavy
with my mother’s high heels,
her taffeta slips, her journals, her smile. 

I would buy Sailing ships full of my father’s voice—
all their voices and laughter—
seas of memory. 

I would buy Trainloads of trust—
my husband’s gaze,
steady across the table. 

I would buy
vineyards of quiet.

I would buy Season tickets to swim through the light.

 

I WORRIED
by Mary Oliver

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless. 

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.”



THE PEACE OF WILD THINGS
by Wendell Berry

 

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,

I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.

I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.

And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free


ANOTHER REASON I NEVER KEEP A GUN IN THE HOUSE
By Billy Collins

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
He is barking the same high, rhythmic bark
that he barks every time they leave the house.
They must switch him on on their way out.

The neighbors' dog will not stop barking.
I close all the windows in the house
and put on a Beethoven symphony full blast
but I can still hear him muffled under the music,
barking, barking, barking, 

and now I can see him sitting in the orchestra,
his head raised confidently as if Beethoven
had included a part for barking dog. 

When the record finally ends he is still barking,
sitting there in the oboe section barking,
his eyes fixed on the conductor who is
entreating him with his baton 

while the other musicians listen in respectful
silence to the famous barking dog solo,
that endless coda that first established
Beethoven as an innovative genius.



KEEPING QUIET
by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still
for once on the face of the earth,
let’s not speak in any language;
let’s stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.
Life is what it is about;
I want no truck with death.

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us
as when everything seems dead
and later proves to be alive.

Now I’ll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.


FIRST DAYS OF SPRING
by Ryokan

First days of spring —

the sky
is bright blue,

the sun huge and warm. Everything’s turning green.


Carrying my monk’s bowl, I walk to the village
to beg for my daily meal.

The children spot me at the temple gate
and happily crowd around,
dragging to my arms till I stop.
I put my bowl on a white rock,
hang my bag on a branch.

First we braid grasses and play tug-of-war,
then we take turns singing and keeping a kick-ball in the air:

I kick the ball and they sing, they kick and I sing.

Time is forgotten, the hours fly.
People passing by point at me and laugh:
“Why are you acting like such a fool?”

I nod my head and don’t answer.

I could say something, but why?
Do you want to know what’s in my heart? From the beginning of time: just this! Just this


DUST
by Dorianne Laux


Someone spoke to me last night,
told me the truth.

Just a few words,
but I recognized it.

I knew I should make myself get up,
write it down, but it was late,
and I was exhausted from working
all day in the garden, moving rocks.

Now, I remember only the flavor --
not like food, sweet or sharp.

More like a fine powder, like dust.

And I wasn't elated or frightened,
but simply enraptured, aware.

That's how it is sometimes --

God comes to your window,
all bright light and black wings,
and you're just too tired to open it. 



NOTICE
by Steve Kowit


This evening, the sturdy Levi’s
I wore every day for over a year
& which seemed to the end in perfect condition,
suddenly tore.

How or why i don’t know,
but there is was: a big rip at the crotch.

A month ago my friend Nick
walked off a racquetball court,
showered,
& halfway home collapsed and died.

Take heed, you who read this,
& drop to your knees now & again
like the poet Christopher Smart,
& kiss the earth & be joyful,
make much of your time,
& be kindly to everyone,

even to those who do not deserve it.

For although you may not believe
it will happen,
you too will one day be gone,

I, whose Levi’s ripped at the crotch
for no reason,
assure you that such is the case.

Pass it on.



SIX WORDS OF ADVICE
by Tilopa


Let go of what has passed

Let go of what may come

Let go of what is happening now

Don’t try to figure anything out

Don’t try to make anything happen

Relax, right now, and rest

FROM TEN POEMS
by Jan Richardson


I cannot tell you how the light comes
What I know
is that it is more ancient than imagining.

That it travels
across an astounding expanse to reach us.
That it loves
searching out
what is hidden,
what is lost,
what is forgotten
or in peril
or in pain.

That it has a fondness for the body, for finding its way
towards flesh,
for shining forth

through the eye, the hand,
the heart.

I cannot tell you how the light comes, but that it does.
That it will.
That it works its way into the deepest dark that enfolds you, though it may seem long ages in coming or arrive in a shape you did not foresee.

And so
may we this day
turn ourselves toward it. May we lift our faces
to let it find us.
May we bend our bodies to follow the arc it makes. May we open
and open more
and open still
to the blessed light
that comes.


WAGING PEACE
by Sarah Klassan

Not something separate. Not
a convenient screen, a wall hastily fabricated
to keep a conflict's blaze contained.
Or the self safe.

Nor something hammered out at tables.
And never sentimental, say a moonlit evening,
an incandescent sky. The Pacific Ocean
on a breathless day. You might as well

wage peace as war. You'd have to stand
exposed at the crossroads of unguarded anger,
a presence, not an absence,
not gritting your teeth. Forcing your clenched hands

open. Your heart's hard core
and everything the stubborn mind conceals
revealed. Disarmed
you may become disarming,

the terror in your unmasked face
radiant, your unshod, wounded feet beautiful
beyond words.


THE SUN NEVER SAYS
by Daniel Ladinsky

Even
After
All this time
The sun never says to earth,

"You owe
Me."

Look
What happens
With a love like that,
It lights the
Whole Sky.


MY WORK IS LOVING THE WORLD
by Mary Oliver


My work is loving the world
Let me keep my mind on what matters
which is speaking with clarity and kindness
which is being open-hearted and open-minded

I am supple and accepting
My judgments and opinions melt away
like ice in the summer sun

I welcome whatever comes
as a valley welcomes the river

My hope for myself is to have goodness and discernment
to never hurry through the world
but to walk slowly and bow often


DON’T MAKE LISTS
by Dorothy Walters


Every day a new flower rises
from your body's fresh soil.
Don't go around looking
for fallen petals
in a fairy tale, when you've
got the golden plant
right here, now,
shooting forth in light from your eyes,
your awakening crown. 

Don't make lists, or explore ancient accounts.
Forget everything you know
and open.


AWARE
by Denise Levertov

When I opened the door
I found the vine leaves
speaking among themselves in abundant
whispers.
My presence made them
hush their green breath,
embarrassed, the way
humans stand up, buttoning their jackets,
acting as if they were leaving anyway, as if
the conversation had ended
just before you arrived.
I liked
the glimpse I had, though,
of their obscure
gestures. I liked the sound
of such private voices. Next time
I'll move like cautious sunlight, open
the door by fractions, eavesdrop
peacefully.