Your world has no hypocrisy. It is bright; even darkness is bright; dinner happens in the morning light. Your speech, so well remembered, cuts through naïve beliefs, pops depression, brings a smile to the eyes. To the one who showed me the world, I sing this little song of remembrance and pay homage ceaselessly.
I sang echoes of the past ages, Blessed were the words I sang, I sang with eyes shut and heart wide open, I believe that when there is no beginning there can never be an end. As naked as the wind I sat in freedom, as clouded as the clouded sky came my thoughts, I stared deep into thin air, and I found myself absorbed, again no where.
NO! Not Now but NOW! Most people associate Now with time and space. The ultimate Now is a self-existing awareness beyond the dualistic concern of ‘here and now’ and ‘there and then’ which are concepts of time and space. The authentic Now concerns not time and space. It is just a simple and natural presence. It is not what we experience nor is it different.
Midnight pools catch the brilliant lanterns carried by women in procession. Deep into sleep I follow them home. As their voices mingle with dawn’s first rays, light flickers across the trellised blossoms Late into morning I wake. The Swayambhu Stupa, long risen from the mist, gleams.
“You” are not more important than the lute, As “you” tend to misunderstand “yourself”. Your deepest fear, sadness, hope, those that you still have to recognize, are harmonic progressions in the One Song, The game of swirly rainbow music light that any protest or noise in your mind is made of. Any name, any forgetfulness, any drama of whatever tone, is a variation of the Rainbow Song.
Slow down, it’s an old room
Mind your breath as you pass by
Else, intense dust may hide in air
And you may never know how long it has been!
Losing it with deception, clouding my own false perception, believing my self-created occupation, Lost myself!! and I still don’t have a reason.
THOUSAND YEAR OLD OAK TREESView Post
Behind the snowy prospects of your eyes, ranging like mountains with onyx studs at their peaks, lies only everything, space and light mingling and stretching, blowing, glowing away to an event horizon where I hover and vanish. There lies my true home, my yearning for it beyond measure.
The more I search within for my motives, the less I know of my self; every explanation, each answer, painfully wrong and incomplete. Why do I do what I do, where is the cause, where the effect, of promised liberation? Where hides the sneaky sculptor who casts my stony belief in this make-believe world?
BY THE EEL RIVERView Post
This morning there is sunshine, and the dew-drops sparkle with their share of light, the stream flows naked, and the air lies unmoved, there is sight in my eyes. This morning there are birds singing, and there is a breeze whispering angel songs, the stream chuckles dirt less, my footsteps fall light on the path, there is sound in my ears…
By having studied, I’ve only filled my empty head.
By doing prostrations, I’ve only ruined my fragile knees.
By making offerings, I’ve only fallen further into poverty.
Sometimes I get mislead,
The path or by my own head;
Sometimes I cry,
The truth or because of the truth of lies…
A thunder has risen inside my mind. My breaths are intermingled with each other, I am frozen, stunned, speechless, shattered. I am victorious, yet lost to myself, standing powerless and vulnerable, I am reflection as well as the mirror, shimmering, sparking and reflecting. What intoxication is that?
Sad it is to see,
Sad it is to hear,
Sad it is to not be able to free,
Sad it is to seek, that which is but everywhere.
The stomach suffers immensely, it suffers from lack. The spine bent and hobbled with hurt, the spine that held up the stairs and resisted the shifting walls, the spine carries us forward, stiffened, but not broken. The hands, palms dark and swollen, knuckles split, fretted with blood. –A poem from an earthquake Nepal survivor.