​
​The self advances
​with each step.
​
​The trees sing when
​there no wind around.
​
​And I watch the leaves
​fall on rocky ground.

What is there left to praise?
Everything is before me.

Clear from the hindrances
of attachment and knowing.
​

Spring air, not quite.
I still have to apply my mind
to the maddening views.
Of those articulating
emptiness as the way.
Jingling and tinkling
their way through life.
Some say, why bother –
this is the way it is.

Trying not to allow dust
to fall upon my thoughts.
I say “How do you like your world?”
​

Even with the wildest
winds around me.
I still find time to come and go.
An afternoon breeze stirs.
The sun sets.
Simple happenings.
Each a snapshot of a moment.
But a path I can always take.
In which I accept my part.

​
​Clambering up and
​down the streets.
​The fog seems to
​go on and on.
​There is no wind of change.
​So how to address the fog?
​Mind, mind and mind –
​with a dose of contemplation.
​Of course, I need to practice –
​a calming of the heart.
​Until I feel all the dust
​and worshipping mounds.
​Have been washed away
​from my mind.

​
​Before the coffee
​had finished brewing.
​I had smiled, and the
​mountain path
​had brought me to you.
​Poems came like rain
​soaking dry streets.
​Everything was here –
​enshrined within me.

​
​I used to be a man of sorrows.
​Weeping in my beer.
​Playing at being brave.
​I knew something was wrong.
​So, I mopped up the clouds –
and wrote poems.
Walking through the dark.
To find places where
the sun hangs out.
A peace between the wars.
​

A spring exodus –
now the heroes return.
A new birth of the art,
spared by the winter cold.
Or a sweet song of
non-attachment?
Let us see the real spring flowers.
In all their natural glory
​

​Gulping down February.
​I travelled for 21 days.
​Past rise fields, seas
and crowded streets.
How precious each step was.
The way was always with me.
And nothing turned from me.
I am sure now
that spring will come.

​

​By the river.
On the streets.
I gaze within myself.
Sometimes, I see a
world of fading grass.
Other times, a flame of
truth as strong a ever.
A place of fleeting hours.
Where heaven and hell
cease to exist.
​

​Still full of hope,
​and full certainly life.
​I left home.
​Soon, I learned
to walk the path.
To notice the minor
ripples in my mind.
To see through them
like one who sees.
Passing through the barriers.
To continue my journey, alone.
​