Poetry: R. L. Boyer

R. L. Boyer

Sabbath

 

Being, not doing, is my first joy.

—Theodore Roethke

1.

Waking early, in the pre-dawn

darkness, make prayers, offering

incense to God. The Buddha-Mind.

Ground of Being. Supreme Self.

Creator. I am not separate. In

the silence, move slowly, mindfully,

stretch the body into the new day.

Practice Chi Gong to bring body,

mind, spirit into harmony; raise

Chi energy for healing. Opening

the front door of my urban hut,

look across to a small field just

beyond the curbside—parking spaces,

filled end-to-end with cars—at the

small patch of wild, overgrown grasses,

where, all too soon, new apartments

will obscure the natural world.

Silence, punctuated by birdsong—

crows, finches, mourning doves. Rumble

of distant cars speeding by on the

freeway. The muffled roar of a jet

streaking high above. A trio of

wild turkeys watch me. Move slowly,

cautiously, hiding in the tall grass.

They break the silence. Gobble, gobble,

gobble. I watch a long time, bless them for

their presence; pray for their protection.

 

2.

Later, indoors again, devote this

day to stillness, silence, punctuated

by healing prayer-songs of Tibetan

monks; meditate, reflect deeply,

notice thoughts arise, then disappear.

Release everything. Make nine bows

to my holy teachers, to my altar,

the sacred space of this humble home.

Read scriptures from ancient spiritual

traditions. Pray for peace, gratitude,

happiness, awakening, compassion

for all living beings, trees, rocks.

Nine bows to the Unborn, never

dying, Self-Nature. Buddha. God.

Creator. Nine bows to the cyclical

realm of Nature, transient, ever

flowing, interdependent,

impermanent, phenomenal world. 

Nine bows to the Source, Siva-Shakti.

 

Tomorrow, time to plan and do.

 

—for my dear friend, Bro. David Steindl-Rast

 

# # #

 

 

Presence (A Haiku Duet) 

a monk returns to 

the marketplace; seeing him, 

cherry trees bloom. 

 

all things gaze and smile 

at him as he walks by— 

even trees bow down. 

—for Dainin Katagiri-Roshi 

# # #

 

 

Impermanence

–for Emrich

 

 

This morning, I wake to greet the 69^th

season since my birth. Young trees

outside my urban hut are arrayed with

 

fragile newborn leaves, shedding the

last withered leaves of winter, all

dancing in the breeze. To the East, the

 

newborn sun rises above the ridge of

Sonoma Mountain as a giant white

egret glides gracefully along the base,

 

just beyond brown wintered pastures.

Beyond the greening horizon, monks and

laymen sit like Buddhas, chant sutras—

 

minds emptied, stroll the temple grounds

amid newborn riots of delicate pink

cherry blossoms on the path to Suzuki-

 

Roshi’s shrine. Spring prematurely

born in depths of winter, signs of

transience everywhere: even (global)

 

climate can change.

# # #

 

Return to Silence

—for Junpo Kando Zenji Denis Kelly-roshi

 

I.

After years, suffering from Parkinson’s disease and

cancer, a Zen-man of the Rinzai sect, a monk and 

 

bodhisattva, joined the ancestors, patriarchs, and

Buddhas—returning from form to formlessness.

 

A dissembling corpse now, five skandhas dissolved,

his identity reduced to pure essence—mysterious

 

Mind-root, source of all worlds. Now, death-inspired

offerings of candles and incense, prayers to the

 

Buddhas at the altar of sages. Spontaneous

offerings of shikantaza, as he would have liked.

 

II

In the stillness, on the zafu, releasing his memory,

breath by breath—the hand of thought opens wide.

 

Ritual imitation of all Buddhas: just sit, following

breath. In the mind, arising—adding to reality—the

 

sound of his staff thumps, still teaching the Dharma.

Echoing the summons of Siddhārtha Gautama and

 

Dōgen: “Time is short. Work out your salvation with

diligence. Make effort!” Just sitting—imitating this

 

Zen-man, imitating Buddha. Returning to silence.

“No sooner do they bloom,/than the cherry blossoms

 

scatter—/the fleeting dream/of a night that takes away

all doubt/about the white clouds on the peak.” The 

 

sitting ends, the incense stick burned down. Outside

an open window, trilling of songbirds in the gentle

 

breeze, laughter of children in the bright Spring

afternoon. Distant gong of temple bells, dissolving.

 

# # #

 

 

Shadow

Busca a tu complementario,

que marcha siempre contigo,

y suele ser tu contrario.

—Antonio Machado

 

I.

When I was young, I had a dream. I saw the

other one—like a ghost in the mirror. We

 

were still twins then—one white, one black—our

navels bound together with cord. Then, I

 

 stepped on that cord and crushed it, and sent the

 dark one away.

 

II.

Now, I’m much older and cast a bright aura. Yet,

he's still beside me, standing behind me, there

 

in the shadows—like an old serpent. Seven

hooded heads form my serpentine umbrella.

 

And when I walk now, haloed in sunlight, my

shadow still follows, wherever I go.

 

—for Robert Bly

 

***

BIO: R L. Boyer is an award-winning poet, fiction author, and screenwriter. His poems have been featured in Depth Insights, Mythic Circle, deLuge, Indelible!, ReVision, SETU, and many other publications. Boyer is a two-time award recipient of the Jefferson Scholarship and a two-time award winner in Literature from the John E. Profant Foundation for the Arts, including the McGuire Family Award for 1^st place in Literature. He is a depth psychologist and current doctoral student in Art and Religion at the Graduate Theological Union and UC Berkeley.

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Setu, October 2023

Poetry: R. L. Boyer

R. L. Boyer

Black Hole

 

only 26 million light years away an

impenetrable mystery lies waiting

at the floating hub of the milky way

an immense darkness squats invisibly

at the center of our galaxy gobbling up

ancient stars while others speed by at

velocities of 20 million miles per hour

like young gazelles outracing – if only

for a moment – the fearsome grasp of

lions as the great and luminous galaxy

wheels round its pivot like a great

spinning disk made of stars spiraling

majestically through the vast spaces of

            endless night.

 

that hole birthed timeless ages ago when

some giant star collapsed inwardly

upon itself and every 100,000 years or so

it has gobbled up some ancient neighbor

until its dark womb has swollen so dense

with the weight of 3 billion suns that its

gravity lets nothing escape its grasp ...

nothing! not even light not even great

spinning wheels made of suns on the

other side perhaps some other world is

growing in the great mouth of that

utterly unutterable mystery slowly

devouring everything as inexorably as

fate the giant insatiable maw of Death

feeding on worlds until the very end of

            Time …

 

(and if you listen closely with the ears

of astronomers you can hear it singing

a cosmic hum in B flat the lowest note

            in this universe.)

# # #

 

Something

 

     Standing in wonder before this Mystery is

     the source of all true art and true science.

     –Albert Einstein

 

something

yet not a thing

            formless and

            immense

beginningless

without end

            all worlds

            stretched out

upon the limitless

abyss like

            jewels

            upon a string

invisible

unity-in-

            diversity

            formless void

of mind

non-existent

            womb of all

            possibilities

mother and

father

            of all things

            living

primordial and

immense

            silent

            true nature

unborn

never dying

            beginningless

            without end ...

# # #

 

In Vain

 

i sought you in the stars at night

and in the morning dew

i sought you in the pale moonlight

and in the sunrise, too

 

i sought you in the armor's clang

and in the human race

i sought you in the serpent's fang

and in the mirrored face

 

i sought you in the cloud-swept moon

and in the candlelight

i sought you in the song of loons

and in the dead of night

                                               

i sought you in political schemes

and in the great oak tree

i sought you in the madman's dreams

and in the depths of the sea

                                               

i sought you in the midnight fire

and in the great and small

i sought you in the rose and briar

and in the rise and fall

 

i sought you in the summit's height

and in my mother's womb

i sought you in the eagle's flight

and in my father's tomb

                                               

i sought you in the battle din

and in the songs of bees

i sought you in the voice of the wind

singing through the cottonwood trees

                                               

i sought you in the summer heat

and in the gentle rain

i sought you through the whole wide world ...

i sought for you in vain -- in vain!

 

            i sought for you ... in vain.

# # #

 

The Tree of Immortality

 

                        Come, return to the root

                        of the root of your Self.

                        --Rumi

 

There is a power at the center of Being.

Some call it the Treasure Hard to Attain,

 

A Horn of Plenty, The Fountain of Youth,

A Pearl of Great Price, The Philosopher's Stone,

 

The Wish-fulfilling Gem, Womb of the Mothers,

The Water and the Life. Its names as inexhaustible

 

as Nature, and you and I grow out of It like

ripening fruit–like delicious golden apples!

 

I call it Paradise, the Tree of Immortality.

 

Find the hidden root, says the Oracle,

and follow it to the Source.

# # #

 

Bio: R. L. Boyer is a 7th year doctoral student in the arts and religion program at the
Graduate Theological Union and UC Berkeley. He holds an MA in Depth Psychology
from Sonoma State University and is a graduate of the Professional Program in
Screenwriting from the UCLA School of Theater, Film and Television. Ron is the
recipient of many competitive awards as a poet, author of short fiction, and screenwriter.

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Setu, July 2023

Essentials of Living: R.L. Boyer (Poem)

R. L. Boyer

AT THIS (STRANGE) TIME

–for Ryōkan

at this (strange) time

bodhisattvas disguised as

healthcare workers, grocery

clerks, migrant workers in the

fields, delivery workers— 

all labor, risk their lives to save 

ours, protecting lives, keeping 

food supply chains open, 

getting sick, dying.

at home, alone in my tiny

post-modern hut, locked down in 

forced isolation, social

distancing—burn incense, make 

offerings of gratitude, prayer. 

***

BIO

R L. Boyer is an award-winning poet, fiction author, and screenwriter. His poems have been featured in Depth Insights, Mythic Circle, Poetry Zone, ReVision, deLuge, SETU, and other publications. Boyer is a two-time award recipient of the Jefferson Scholarship and a two-time award winner in Literature from the John E. Profant Foundation for the Arts, including the McGuire Family Award for 1st place in Literature. He is a depth psychologist and current doctoral student in Art and Religion at the Graduate Theological Union and UC Berkeley. 

Setu, January 2021

Five Songs to God --for Rainer Maria Rilke - by R. L. Boyer

R. L. Boyer

BIRTH AGONIES

 

you are stirring in

whispers like a

 

soft breath rustling of

leaves shifting of

 

lovers on beds of

raw silk soon you

 

will sound more like

thunder grumbling,

 

shouting above a

hard rain mountains

 

crumble in your

wake your power is

 

wonderful and my

thoughts are scattered

 

like clouds upon the

wind from the birth

 

agonies of eagles

 

IN QUIET HOURS

 

 

In quiet hours, I have ears to

hear your silences. That's how I

 

know that you are calling me. And

how I recognize your voice when

 

I awaken. I can hear you

in the secret places of my

 

solitude. Your voice sounds like the

flapping of great wings. (But it changes

 

all the time). Sometimes, your voice

sounds like  the birth wails of infants.

 

Sometimes, like the angry beat of

war drums. It often sounds like the

 

chirping of songbirds. Or the loud,

hot clash and din of battle, tumult of

 

nations. Echoes in deep valleys. The

mournful cry of loons on a

 

northern lake. Sometimes, your voice rolls

over me, like waves of thunder.

 

Sometimes, like mountains shifting, or

the grinding of giant teeth. Your

 

voice sounds like Eternity.

 

            Listen!

 

Everything is singing out of

your vast silences. Infinite

 

worlds we know nothing of are

singing there! (But mostly, you speak

 

softly like the lonely hush of a

mountain wind wandering where it

 

will and singing through long pines.)

 

            Listen!

 

You often speak in whispers like the

dead. The strange thing is that you have

 

ears to hear me, too!. So, why can't

you hear me?

 

            Listen!

 

In quiet hours, unspoken thoughts of

you rise in me like a shout!

 

 

ARE YOU STILL ASLEEP?

 

 

Old One, are you still

asleep? In my silence I

think I hear you, rocking

gently. I am often

 

saddened at your

loneliness. Sometimes, I

feel you bending down,

looking as if you've

 

lost something valuable.

That's when I feel afraid.

Here! Lend me your hand.

Doesn't that feel better

 

now? I am small, but far

from helpless. And in my

tiny hand your thick

finger feels like the branch

 

of an ancient tree. It feels

so heavy in my grip, and

rough, like the hand of a

workman, a master carver

 

in stone. But warm, too,

like the breast of a mother

bird. I grasp your finger,

tightly, growing calm, as

 

you are calm.

BEGINNING TO KNOW YOU

 

                                                           

Grandfather, I think I am beginning to know you. For

Too many years you have spoken to me out of the                       

 

Whirlwind, driving me willy-nilly—a leaf in a cyclone. I

Guess that happens when you fall asleep and dream.  I

 

Lost faith in you then, thinking you had lost me. But we

Are both awake now—at the same time, for a change. 

 

So, let's be calm and walk together in our Garden, my tiny

Hand in yours, silence our only speech. Grandfather,

 

I think I am beginning to know you—now.

 

 

COOING OF DOVES

 

Tonight, the moon lies hidden in your shadow.

I am covered by your thick silence, like a shroud.

                                               

I can't see you, there in the darkness, but I feel you

Lean towards me, across great distances: reaching,

                                               

From beyond the stars, with wavelike hands of light.

Your hands are unspeakably tender as they gather me

                                               

Up—holding me close, nestled against your great heart:

The lonely heart of a mother. I feel safe here, now.

                                               

But it still seems so strange to me that my faint chirps

Are loud enough to actually move you. And your

                                               

Silence seems more like the cooing of doves.

***

 

BIO

R L. Boyer is an award-winning poet, fiction author, and screenwriter. His poems have been featured in Depth Insights, Mythic Circle, Poetry Zone, ReVision, and other publications. Boyer is a two-time award recipient of the Jefferson Scholarship and a two-time award winner in Literature from the John E. Profant Foundation for the Arts, including the McGuire Family Award for 1^st place in Literature. He is a depth psychologist and current doctoral student in Art and Religion at the Graduate Theological Union and UC Berkeley.  
 

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Setu, November 2021