Poetry by Nonin Chowaney- Nebraska Zen Center

three empty yellow buses in a line in front of the school	in my bus chewing on a toothpick rain runs down the window
...	...
rain yesterday rain today alone in my bus	children run around the corner into the school
...	...
two old women huddle together under an umbrella	cars on a rainy street whishhhh! whishhhhhhhh!
...	...
wet sidewalk wet bricks flag flapping in the breeze

Thinking of Home (1985)

wet cobblestones
speckled with autumn leaves

two thousand miles away

Catching the Sun (1986)

tassajara

up the boulder-strewn
creek bed

past ancient moss-covered
rockfaces

climbing this winter damp
mountain canyon
out of bone-piercing cold
to catch the sun
and finally rest, warming
on a lichen-spattered rock

high above the monastery
far below
a red-tailed hawk
settles on a live oak
watches, waits
then wings away

there is nowhere
to get to
only the path
to follow

wispy contrail
high above

reminder of the life
i left

End (1986)

tassajara

melancholy day
training period's end

after seeing friends off
to the city
i climb the knoll
to suzuki-roshi's monument
offer incense, bow
and stand for a moment

this patch-robed life
that leads nowhere
heavy on my heart

sunlight filters
through live oak
light breeze tosses
blue and white altar irises

nothing to do
but bow once more
and go

Give it Up (1986)

give it up, lou
the thought processes

the endless attempts
to puzzle it all out

give it up
and come home

cross your legs
and sit in peace

Above the Temple (1987)

shogo-ji

cedar spires
rock walls

a distant waterfall

in america
i admired paintings
of steep, humped mountains
like these

now, walking up the creek
i am in the midst
of "a thousand peaks
and myriad ravines"

water spills over
massive boulders into
deep green pools

in cool, sunless corners
tree roots snake over
mossy rocks laced
with vines and creepers

each time i come here
i climb farther upstream
closer to the source

but there's no path
this high in the mountains
the way is rugged
and steep

i stop and sit
on a rock
in the middle
of the stream

water tumbles
moss creeps

sky clouds
boulders sit

like zen monks

as sky dances
on rippled water

Fading Away (1990)

for dainin katagiri

walking in the mountains
in the spring
outside kyoto

up a two-track
covered with a mix of
brown cedar boughs
and fresh green shoots

i pull out my journal
and a paper falls out

your name is on it,
written to place
on the altar
the night you died

jikai dainin daiosho

my first teacher
the master i always
went back to,
right to the end

i strike a match

paper flares and
curls into ash

smoke rises into
overhanging branches
and fades away

The Swans (1991)

body calmed
mind also calmed

for they are
not two

nor do they reside
in any one place

the mind/body
does not begin
or end anywhere

for it begins
and ends
everywhere

like
the swan
and her cygnets

motionless

by the side
of a deep, still pond

they rise
enter
and swim away

Poems for Nonin's Father

For my Father (1983)

my father, long dead
sits on a camp stool
on the banks of the seneca river
fishing for bullheads
at twilight

he puffs on a cigarette
flicks his fingers skyward
smoke dances into the summer night
fades away

not easy to write this
memory like water
running thru my fingers

ready to board a plane
at syracuse airport
i look back
watch him walk away
baggy pants, black trenchcoat
small, lifeworn
sending his son back to college

how much is his life and
how much my sadness?
the world's passing
suffering, pain

my father still sits
on the camp stool
on the banks of the seneca river
fishing for bullheads
at twilight

he puffs on a cigarette
flicks his fingers skyward
smoke dances into the summer night
fades away

My Father, Once Again (1997)

you died twenty-five years ago
yet still come in dreams

you show up one night
in an unknown house
sitting in a chair
hat pulled low
face hidden

but it's you
no mistake

and though somewhat
mysterious

and distant

have a life
somewhere

far away

Good with His Hands (1997)

my father was
good with his hands

he and my uncles
could coax garages
out of second-hand lumber,
build each other's houses
remodel bathrooms
build boats in their backyards

my dad kept trying to
get me to help him
to teach me
but i wouldn't

i was only interested in
baseball and music
and, later, girls

after years of music jobs, college,
graduate school, and teaching
i went to welding school
and finally learned
to work with my hands

later, i learned other things,
how to hang sheet rock, tape, and paint
to pound nails and handle tools

now, proud of my work
remodeling the temple kitchen

i sneer at men who can't,
or won't, work with their hands

like my dad used to sneer at me

and realize that i am finally
my father's son

Driving Home (1998)

driving home tonight
with my father
from fishing
at the long bridge
in Cayuga

i am twelve years old

an unmarked blacktop
stretches out of the
headlights' yellow glow
into the darkness

i am safe

my father's hands
are on the wheel

a cigarette rests
between stubby fingers
nails bitten to the nub

i can barely see his face
in the faint glow
of dashboard lights

there is a red light
near the top
of the speedometer

forty-five years
i have remembered
these things

driving home
with my father
from fishing
on a warm summer night

You Look Good (1999)

i dreamt of my father
last night

first time in years

we hugged
(imagine that!)

then walked
side by side

i asked him
if he'd lost weight

“you look good,”
i said

as we walked
arms around shoulders

down a long
dirt road