The Fly’s Buzzing Silenced, Haiku Recz 2014

Haiku, Summer Ango 2014
Recz, Poland

Under the pink horizon
Two children play chase
Only their voices

The breeze stays longest
In the giant cottonwood
This must be a love song too

Pink iris blossom
In a vacant field
How long the bee has travelled

Beyond the wild brush
The lake—reflecting light
In a million mild waves

Snapping my own horsetail
Summer flies
Restore me to Eden

The whistler’s song
Serenading quiet monks
Morning noon and night

Three solitary sitters
Sharing the same dream
Morning birdsong

Tenzo’s sigh
Smoke rising
Above green wheat fields

The end of Recz
Twin trees glowing
A country road

Storied manor grounds
Young oak planted
Near the rusty swing

So quiet
The wheat fields
Listen to us

Scaling summer wind
The cool air
Under stork wings

Slow steps forwards
I must have crossed a boundary
Smell of incense

Sleepers—thinkers
Morning after zazen
Who can tell the difference?

Heaped in the window
Lady bug shells
Thousands

Fly on a monk’s back
This is how he sees
What’s behind him

A mother’s scolding
Travels unimpeded
Down the country road

Summer evening
The voices of Recz
For everyone to hear

Last night my neighbor
This morning my kitchen
Roaming whistler’s song!

Can you imagine?
Angry at a robe—
Tie right! Tie right!

Two pink iris
Swans
Sailing in wind

Summer grass
Munching under their feet
Monks in procession

The sound of no-wind
The sound of no-mind
The sun!

Baby oaks
Just tall enough
To shade the sunbathers

Why spoil it with talk?
Bird dharma
Shrouded in trees

Learning mule patience:
The flies don’t bother me
Until they bother me

Cloaked by boundary trees
The whistler’s song
Does not reveal the whistler

Resistance broken
All day sitting
I might croak!

Late in the day
Flies climb their black robes
Nothing will help them

Gazing straight up
Like a son to father
The giant cottonwood tree

The young sapling
Bears fruit too
Just not so tasty

Sleepers sprawled
On manor grounds
With the drying laundry

Laid to rest
Inside the gas heater
My beautiful fly

The slightest breeze
Shows itself
In the white curtain

Plough tracks
In blue wheat fields
Dusk

The fly’s buzzing—silenced
Emptiness fills the room
Another great teacher, gone

Mantra:

Repetition
Repetition
Repetition
Until
Resistance
Broken
Then
An
Opening
Not
A
Thing
But
Flowing
Like
The
Lotus
On
Water
And
The
Frog
On
It
Croaking
Croaking
Croaking

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