OPEN LETTER TO THE 17TH KARMAPA
(in memory of Rangjung Dorje the 16th Karmapa)

I took refuge with the 16th Karmapa
at Rumtek, his monastery in Sikkim, in 1978
A few years before, with my wife Judith,
and a thousand others, I was sitting
in an aircraft hangar in San Francisco
when he raised a crown-like black hat to the top of his head
and flooded the wide open space
with a force I had no name for
or understanding of. Let’s just say he tipped his hat to me
and a few years later with an entreaty I could not refuse
cut strands of hair from my head and by the single vow
that I would not gossip or speak meanly of others
confirmed me a Buddhist.
I learned to meditate over many years
visiting Tulku Urgyen at Nagi Gompa, his nunnery
perched above Kathmandu. It was the walk there and back
anticipating and digesting what he’d tell me
that focused and clarified my mind, emptying it of preconceptions,
that gave it direction and grounding.
Then the weeks of sitting, getting it right
or wrong, till he once again led me to focus unfocused,
to look without looking, to meditate
without meditating.
But it was Penor Rinpoche
who I met in 1976 at his monastery in a refugee camp
in the south Indian plains
who reached through my defenses,
through the underpinnings of all I experienced,
who established in me a basis for awakening.
Who did this many times over many years,
though I didn’t realize he was doing it till I did.
The full force that lifted me free,
that magnetized and drew me east
first felt at the back of that airplane hangar
was within and throughout always present.
I draw on it today, with apprehension,
as I beseech those who gather in Bodhgaya
where Buddha attained enlightenment
and in Lumbini where he was born,
those who come together to pray for peace,
to do so not just in places of pilgrimage
made well and whole within your own Mandala,
but to open wide those protective circles
for all who suffer from war,
and from war makers and war profiteers.
I ask you to gather not just where peace was attained,
but at the heart of the beast, in their lairs,
their military bases, and in their banks,
corporate offices and government strongholds.
If not yet by presence, then by aspiration,
lead us to stand in solidarity
and bear witness against these crimes.
Though I lack your compassion and vision,
I would rely on it.
For those who would establish the basis for being
within us, is it not time
to establish that ongoing basis for being
in the world.

MAN SEEKS
(for Eric Weiner)

Eric, if you’re set on seeking God
In Kathmandu, you're 30 years too late.

The old realized ones are dead
or out of reach. The others have followed the money to Amerika

and its Euro-peon colonies.
Better to search for the “Seeking God” book

in your own neighborhood.
The world out there all bad news and suffering

is now home grown. And for Buddhists,
it’s “Dharma” not religion,

though “Tantra” works from the inside
out.  So if you're under 50,

a travel guide to enlightenment
might do, but over the line, I'd say: Don't go!

Stay home and sit
Zen. If you gotta go for it,

try Tashi Jong in the Indian Himals.
Real (as in realized) ‘Tantrikas’
 
live there. Your wide-eyed
take on “Tantra”

makes for a telling story line. 
Be the fool and pursue it. But if you’re a worrier,

speak to Tsoknyi Rinpoche
If you meditate already, seek out Mingyur Dorje.

These sons of Tulk Urgyen
can be seen stateside. Elder brother, Chokyi Nyima

is quite public in his Boudhanath,
Saturday morning, open house, digressions.

Better to begin there on your own,
without me as an escort

and stumble in the way everyone does.
He’ll know who’s calling.

O seeker of happiness, the tide is against you.
As the by the book traveler

skips to the East, Dharma’s
skedaddled West.  He who leaves home
 
never arrives.

QUERIES
(for Tai Situ Rinpoche)

1.

Tulku Urgyen
looked at the 2 photos I handed him,

the leper who worked as a “shoeshine boy”
and Situ Rinpoche offering the Red Hat Ceremony

and then at me.
No difference, he said,

in response to my query.
Both have Buddha nature.

Though one has recognized
the nature of his mind

and the other has not.
Placing me, I surmised,

somewhere between, unsure,
having not yet stabilized

nor integrated such awareness
into daily life. 

2.

Situ Rinpoche smiled
at my telling of the Red Hat Ceremony

“If I appear, he said,
I can disappear”

And lifting the ornate hat
onto his head

with a wink of an eye,
without the slightest equivocation

vanishes…
and appears once again

LOTUS BORN, SUN BRED
(for Sharma Rinpoche, 1952-2014)

As day breaks on Swayambou hill,
immovable stone
decapitated by the mist

jumps from its god-shapes.
Or is this just a band of monkeys
roaming the forest
 
haloed in sun-distilled air?
Or my monkey mind
tripping on a prayer-beaded

Om Mani Padme
Hung?Lifted this morning
by Sharma Rinpoche’s

presence, I glide
down the steep stone steps
from the Stupa,

entreated by grasping hands
and an insistent whine:
one rupee, baksheesh give!

Cutting through the arc of my Kora,
my circling of the shrine
I turn home as the sun lifts its palms

and unmet in praise
turns a collective fist upon damp
crumbling walls

Intent to rouse
the hermetic reclusive town
from its futile feudal

sleep

Swayambou, 1979

On the ridge Siddhartha sits
His skin draped bones visible to all below
In the shaded grove behind, on lawn chairs,
his modern-day disciples recline.
Barely a wind strays across the temple grounds
In the hills beyond, far flung embers flare.
Gold! Gold! Gold! The fierce Tibetan master
rising from the lotus pond, deflects midday’s
blinding light. Within the temple, a twenty-foot buddha
towers above empty cushions. Armies of miniature buddhas
flank his sides. Gold! Gold! Gold! Stupas rise like castles
from sand O, Ozmandias! O, Planet of the apes!
Phones and ice cream in hand, day tourists
capture the paths all around. Late afternoon call to prayer.
With Tibetan cadence and English sprawl,
covid-masked voices praise what lies
at the heart of this dreamlike life. To their karmic lament,
I add, in this age of planet-wide harm,
the crimes of others writ in their name, for many,
to dare to live is a crime. Not even a thimble full of water,
a spoonful of curd, to ease their way. No matter the debt
or austerity imposed, no matter the power ranged,
the weapons raised, the harm threatening all,
let precious human life be our fervent refrain.
Precious! Precious! Precious! Each by their capacity
benefitting all. Each precious life an affirming flame.
Each by their conduct braving the fray. Nonviolent dissent
an affirming flame. Into the night Buddha sits.
For those who see, in the forest beyond, far flung embers
flare. Composed in a hillside cabin, in the peacock
thronged forest of Lerab Ling, in the waning
moon of the fifth month, in the year of the water tiger,
by this ten-toed skeleton with ears. May these heart-strung
phrases, and the actions they entail, bring benefit to beings.
Despite drought, hunger, flood, and flame, may these words
worth less than a curd-skinned shard of clay
nourish and sustain all who wander in storm bound night.
May the sun that never sets, nor rises. awaken all.
May it be auspicious!