Through Decembers
rolling streets.
I felt the silence.
All through me.
It was as though
I was walking with
the Buddha.
No self-loathing.
No anger.
And no confusion
about the way.
I was determined
to carry on.

​

​There is sadness
​in the long wanderings.
​And seasons when the
​trees do not bare fruit.
​But always a choice of direction.
​Nothing created.
​Nothing destroyed.
​There is nothing in this world
​that does not belong.
​The poem is always written.

You asked me
what do I earnestly seek?
No more than inner peace,
was my reply.

For I am now too lazy
to be ambitious.
And too tired to talk about
delusion and enlightenment.

But, I can write poems.
And sit comfortably on my own.
Enough wisdom to end the
cycle of life and death?

Perhaps, perhaps not.

​
​

I thought of you today.
Memories razor-sharp.
Like someone dancing inside me.
But always out of reach.
Like most thoughts and memories.
Even the deepest understanding
of the impermanent nature of life.
Cannot remove from my mind.
What I once loved.
And gave me gave me such pleasure.
Of the mind and the body.
It keeps be coming back.
Again, and again.

Some say keep still
in the roar of silence.
And wait and see what happens.

I say in my garden all the roots rise.
Words, knowledge and action.
The marriage happened long ago.

As for anger, shame or malice.
I meet them at the door.
Laugh, and send them on their way.

What is this I hear ?
The sounds of the
streets with their long
and ancient tongues.
Hanging out, from a
thousand windblown days.
With dreams bigger than all of us.
Yet, full of whispered desires.
Most empty, in sync
with nature’s way.

​’Come, let’s go’
​I said to myself.
​No longer a
frozen shadow.
Confined within my mind.
Seeing the streets walk.
and the rivers flow.
Life is my own.
Just one unbroken line.

​

Visiting streets
and rivers that seem
never to end.
Waiting for winter
to whip its way into life.
Telling yourself that hardships
are stretching everywhere.
And over analyzing what
the world calls knowledge.
Then….
Letting the self-go.
Towards a more common-flow.
Knowing that from
dead tree streets there
will be many dead ends.
Reducing desire and attachment.
And watching the yellow and pink
lotus flowers flood the city streets.
What shall be at
the center of your being?

You ask me why
I dwell in poetry.
And smile along the way.

I have no worldly desires.
But there has never
been a time I do not exist.

And my life is as real as yours.
I am part of the universe.
This makes my inspiration soar.

I know a man without fame.
Who just keeps moving.
The stage in his head.
One of words and solitude.
His future, like rainbows
can never be reached.
He says, with each step,
a winter wind blows.
With each step,
a spring flower blooms.
With each step,
a thousand new directions.
And as long as he puts his
passion to the world.
Everything in life is useful.