“I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front the only essential facts of life. And see if I could not learn what it had to teach and not, when I came to die, discovered that I had not lived” – Henry David Thoreau
You sit alone, contemplating,
your mind pinched Gyrus and Sulcus,
images, words, clouded consciousness,
there it is, that sparkling diamond,
that treasure of thought you sought,
a brief moment of clarity, euphoria,
then a dung ball of interruption arrives,
a question or inconsequential comment,
the pointed needle of deflating conceit,
it is fleeting, this fragile inspiration,
a gossamer thread drifting, swiftly flown,
journeying on winds of distraction,
context lost to bitter miss direction,
the mind adjusts seeking a redemption,
but, the moment is gone, a lost corpse,
and you drift into tomorrow’s challenge.
Searching through my attic
I found an old dusty box,
the cardboard stained by years,
neglect chewing its frayed edges.
It contained things not forgotten,
the mind grocery list left behind,
a storehouse of need, yearning.
To awaken the past can be
a terrible realization of the present,
a specter finger pointing, condemning, accusing.
A dangerous reflection leads to guilt,
I wishes, whys, whys.
However many holy words you read,
however many you speak,
what good will they do you
if you do not act on upon them?
Whatever words we utter
should be chosen with care
for people will hear them and
be influenced by them for good or ill.
Better than a thousand hollow words,
is one word that brings peace.
In the sky, there is no distinction of east and west;
people create distinctions out of their own minds
and then believe them to be true.
The way is not in the sky,
the way is in the heart.
A jug fills drop by drop.
Every human being is the author
of his own health or disease.
To understand everything
is to forgive everything.
In a controversy the instant we feel anger
we have already ceased striving for the truth,
and have begun striving for ourselves.
No one saves us but ourselves,
no one can and no one may,
we ourselves must walk the path.
This poem is written with the words of a man named Siddhārtha Gautama, the Buddha. I am not a Buddhist however if one were to internalize his words, they would change that persons life forever. It is that simple. May they bring you reflection and peace.
Change, we all change, life
is change. From the day of birth
change begins, we are a journey
of change. As a caterpillar becomes
a chrysalis to emerge a butterfly,
we exist in this cocoon of life to
emerge, changed. Our reality is death,
change from the material to the ethereal,
not an ending, a beginning, a wondrous,
marvelous participation in spiritual
evolution, our eternal existence,
the movement of energy through time
and space. The joining of the eternal
common thread. It has always been,
what has always been, and, it will
always be eternal. In change we
will once again join the spirituality
of creation’s cusp, to be born again.
Someone has arrived with spring,
A gangly girl cast in a lavender hue,
She sojourns at the garden gate,
Positioning her whimsy there,
Her want to protect the portal,
My wife has unfounded jealousy,
She says this spindly guest mocks,
Though she has not spoken, she clings,
Rearranging the wooden fence tactfully,
I find her a rather refreshing temptress,
Sliding beneath the crocus and rose,
Her gown of green lifted, baring,
Leggy female of Mother Earth,
You have interrupted my plans,
How can I but love you, my sweet,
Unwelcome beauty, euphonious Wisteria.
I am not possessed of possessions.
Things in transition from one state
to becoming something other than they are,
Every pot and pan, each book and tablet,
a garden and home, all transitory,
even the thread that binds a shirt,
changing. Neither a possession nor
possessed, yes used, not owned, allowed.
This mind that writes these words,
changing, what was thought possessed,
now gone, replaced, it was only loaned.
We are all the things that ever were,
what we will become is never kept,
The only real thing that can be momentarily
possessed is this moment, this second of time,
this hand tick on on the eternal clock,
things do not belong to us as we do not
belong to ourselves, and the moment,
that we did possess, is now gone forever.
I wonder have I spent its worth wisely?