Art & Poetry

 
poem for connie dover

blameless, I can’t write….
while way out west,
you’re peeling off thin images,
a heavenly laundry.

You have a roped post in your pre-frontal
that holds forth in the wind of time,
its flapping white clothes happy
to be free of them bodies and their humors.

Them are there, they that lived and live now
and will live later, as if the days
were sparrows in a mirror held
close to the chest.

— Sokuzan 2013

 

Nyo Ho E

taking stitches
in the blue black
cloth, making
the sounds of
refuge in the
triple gem.
each time
the needle
tries to
vanish,

holding the
old material
against my knees,
pins poking me
as the sun reaches
into my heart
through the
winter window
of November,

where colors
had been
snow hats have
turned the
greenhouse
white, and I,
sinking brown
thread over
and over into
the chalked
lines, turn to the
ancient way

— Robert Brown, 2006
(Nyingje Chochar, Sherap Riwo,
Garudahead, Plumblossom Dharma)
Kyoun Sokuzan