what if arising anger were no less “it” than meditative bliss?
thoughts occurring of themselves and the I, one amongst them
fortunate to recognize when your time has come,
more fortunate to recognize when it has gone
pleasure of age –
driving through orchards
excited by blossoms
no thing is any thing in itself
the unsayable speaks for itself
life is like a roller coaster: it’s not obvious that you can relax and enjoy the ride
there are no real solutions to the problems of living, only dissolutions
without dwelling in the question of how much is enough, we are unlikely to experience having it
trust and forgiveness are the front and the back of the hand of love
one version of the art of living: learning to be how and what you are
blossoms sway
lightly
after rain
a petal
then another
falls
two questions for hard (or any) times –
what matters?
how much is enough?
when you no longer push the river, the river no longer pushes you
amazing grace,
how sweet the sound. . .
the story
I tell myself I am
resolving
. . . into song
the illusion of control is the most fundamental (and cruelest) illusion of all
transparent: air to the bird, water to the fish, language to ourselves
all dreams of flowers
(i love you more)
are nothing so much
(than words can hold)
as reflections of your face
(or heart can say)
caught in a smile
with apologies and thanks to ee cummings
bare branches soak in silence
broken once only
by the cry of a crow
the world emerging as we speak . . .
could even the gods ask for more?
a life organized around accumulating power is a life spent attempting to control the outcomes in life
a special grace: to be granted contentment with one’s lot
life’s ultimate pleasure: to be free from care
(adapted from Baisao)
beauty is a gift
God gives at the beginning
as s/he disappears into the world
unplanned obsolescence — aging in youth crazed America
if you see you that control in life is an illusion, the (apparent) choice is faith or despair
any question concerning ultimate origins is unanswerable
there is no way to the Way
it’s true –
I don’t wish I’d spent
more time at the office
content with the finger pointing, I no longer demand to see the moon
soon, being American will no longer come with the birthright to have too much
because we are human beings, we live in language;
because we live in language, we live in time;
because we live in time, we have a future;
because we have a future, we have concerns…
(adapted from a talk by Fernando Flores circa 1985)…
spirituality has to do with our mood around the ultimate questions that arise because we humans live in language and, thus, in time
the veil is pierced revealing: there is no, and never was, a veil to be pierced
the cost of inauthentic living is likely despair before death
revenge is a dish best served not at all
the great American illusion is that the pursuit of happiness will result in it
until you know what you are, how can you know who you are?
how remarkable, we celebrate only youth even as our own disappears
leaf after leaf floats,
like the moments of our living,
until the last one touches ground
leaves linger
slowly baring branches
this year a late fall
thou hast no self to k(no)w
a play on a play No. 1
the fields are dirt
again,
the harvest come and gone
again,
the earth is still, awaiting spring
again
life resolves in mystery, not explanation
flying wing of geese
honks its way south,
in their wake: winter
none of us is spared the exactness of a fate
even after his heart attacked him, he still thought he was immortal
the truth is for most part an illusion with which people tranquilize themselves thinking that they have it or will, at worst, someday
a quest for the Truth most likely ensnares, at worst enslaves
the sun moves faster,
last summer blossoms
float into fall
she,
not being here,
neither needs me nor feeds me
now that I’m 64
everything is impermanent, even this wish that it weren’t
bullshit is fatiguing
a life unshared is a life half-lived
sun sets,
day cares fade,
now: the peace of night descends
fixed income
rising prices
the blues
the Tao,
immortal Way,
is no way
black and white -
crows, egrets
in the rice fields, feeding
one-legged jay,
hops, pecks,
screeching flies off
east flying crows
caw & caw,
announce the fall of night
emotions trump the intellect;
the poetic, the reasonable
all talk of the Way
breaks the silence,
some with good cause
one-legged jay
scruffier than the rest
hops about scattered seed
a way that becomes the way leads nowhere
the unsayable when spoken is silence
the notion of enlightenment obstructs transparent living (unless it doesn’t)
since one can only be (is) and not observe the One,
nothing can be said about it, not even this
the Truth of advaita is that there is no truth of advaita
post-modern advaita: too much talk about Nothing
having the truth blinds us to what is
the self arising at this moment can never see itself
forgiveness is the best revenge
you can neither know thyself nor no thyself
could we be the species
that entertains itself
into extinction?
sometimes at night I
(not speaking, but spoken,
not singing, but sung)
wonder at words
bringing the world into being
where in a world out of balance do we find center but in this moment?
at any moment
gone (perhaps)
splat like a fly
in many mirrors,
in many windows,
my reflection…growing older
affable cop on day off
shares tricks of trade
with violators
even the Dalai Lama gets the blues;
he just doesn’t have them for long
“what is” is neither perfect nor imperfect, it simply is
dusk in the valley,
crows gather, flock,
10,000 caws
not two — the interpreter and the interpreted
there is no market for aphorisms
seekers seeking for a life other than their own
peace passing understanding is nothing of this world…and..is this world
peace in living doesn’t look like anything other than what is
whether or not I ever see the moon…the finger pointing is enough
I’m just a guy,
my head turns as she walks by,
I’m just a guy
when it comes to sex and money, most human beings can do most things
you don’t need to be in love for love to be in you
all is discourse, some is song
if I am not this thought
or that thought,
am I no thought?
smiling first befriends the other…and oneself
inside the gift shop
two captive birds
sing for each other
giving tames the wanting beast
forgiving is a primordial act of love
while I live life as a local, I sometimes experience it as a tourist
nothing completely original is ever said; only the moment of utterance is new
when you no longer need to know the time, they give you a watch
