In POETRY by Tulku Sherab Dorje1 Comment

Sometimes, this universe of mine
seems filled to bursting with conditioned display,
not a hint of room anywhere, no edge or backdrop.
How, where, can I find myself, in such a spaceless mess?
All my professed practice leaves no trace,
no arc of light to cut through this latter day gloaming.
Lama Kyen!

Inveterate clinging to this endless display clutters my heart,
clogs arteries of clarity with hot and cold embers of hope and fear.
I drown within this rudderless, anchorless, and leaky body,
fidgeting like a panicked child cast adrift
in a trampoline cage filled with shiny, colorful plastic balls.
It started out fun, so bright and new; and now it’s come to this.
Lama Kyen!

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?
Lama Kyen!

Each body part mocks my posture of control atop my cushion.
The years are running out, my months and days too.
And here I sit, mind running wild, hither and fro,
clueless to how or when it will stop, its tides casting me
against the same sharp shoals, again and again, without pity.
Sometimes I remember to swallow the drool, the only sure sign
of the time I have wasted in the composure of an idiot.
Lama Kyen

You happy-faced lamas and yidams, sitting so still and majestic on my shrine,
tell me your secrets: how did you get up there, and how do you stay?
Share it now! Send a rain of blessed beatings upon my head, if you must!
Lama Kyen!

I still don’t see whose job it is to tame my ego.
All I can see, and I who see it, are just ego; so what’s left?
No matter how long I think I have practiced,
the slightest threat of change or discomfort
leaves me whorled, sends me whirling, or worse.
What kind of job is this, how is it ever done?
Lama Kyen!

If I remember, I pray to be sincere in my prayers.
Sometimes it doesn’t seem to work, and I can’t fathom why.
I humbly hope something pure is filtered out or broken off,
as I rush down the cataract of karma and time to my shattering demise.
May some useful scraps, words and blessing fragments
gleaned from all my diversions and sidetrack adventures
be left behind; I pray it be so.
And may you all do better than I have done.

About the Author
Tulku Sherab Dorje

Tulku Sherab Dorje

Tulku Sherdor is either a ranking reincarnate Lama or a rank imposter, depending upon whom you ask and what day it is. He lives in an endless display of pure and impure phenomena, with many recurring patterns. He spends a lot of time wishing and struggling to become just like the precious Lamas he studied with and admires greatly, who used to be more plentiful, and nowadays seem more scarce.

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    Magnificent! Beautifully written and so ordinary.

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