Another day.
Not for me.
There is always
work to do.
Classrooms
rattling and banging
with ideas and opinions.
Like a wandering poet
trying to find the right words.
Then, the flame flickers.
Everything is caught
between the sword,
and the lotus.
And the teaching begins.

In the old days
I had many things.
And magpies danced
wherever they pleased.
Then life became
a shrine for a great rage.
Not a single soul came to weep.
But, between the buildings.
and squabbling days.
There was a light
that never went out
And hearts colder than mine.
I realized that when
my life is over,
only green flies will mourn.
So, it is best for me to bloom
as often as I can, and then die.

But the world is bright.
If you laugh at words
and such foolishness.
My garden now is wrapped
in memories so spongy.
I can now move my feet.
Continuing my journey
to the very centre.
Afterall, no one escapes
the wheel of birth and death.

Each night I write.
And offer up some
thoughts to myself.
Tonight’s thoughts…..
Now that summer has gone
the cicadas are silent.
And the glitter of the fireflies.
Is left in the poets hand.

I

I gaze at the streets around me.
There are no limits in sight.
And discuss philosophy,
with the Chinese lady who
reads books in English.
My only companion in the
search for the way.
From time to time
my mind is at peace,
and then less so.
But always, whatever way I look.
A solitary moon and
a solitary sun shine.
And life and death?
Well, both of them seem good.

Quick sounds.
Echoes of chattering tongues.
A rustic temple.
A bad spirit.
And the willow trees
recalling the glory days.
Time to put on
my autumn clothes.
And journey to a place
without memory of a scent.

Wrapped-up in old dreams.
We met along the way.
Carrying what survived
from a few stupid lies.
Surveying the centuries
and the totems of our desire.
You taught me to
be compassionate
toward myself,
and all living things.

Now I watch the
blossoms come and go.
Growing old with
the pearl of my mind.
Everything is where
it always is.
Around me and in
the sky above.
And there is no path
I cannot take.

A new month.
And everything is
carried forward.
The pathos of
A long-hot summer.
The magpies,
captivated by the
darker nights to come.
Quick sounds
of chopping,
hopes for a better future.
And the poet,
wandering between
life and death.
But still a journey
of a million miles ahead.
Calling in to see
the moon of winter.
From time-to-time.

I walk towards the lake.
As if it were a Buddhist temple,
shining in the sun.
Bitterness and anger
have certain faces.
A gift to those restless nights.
But fading into the moment,
I see satisfaction and
the transient joy of life.
A circling beauty
in everyday things.
That has no substance,
without my mind, my words
and my voice.

Leaves falling.
Not knowing
east or west.
North or south.
Not knowing
fame, or desire
of the self.
Not knowing
who will save them
from the chasm.
As things are.
A fleeting from.
With no I and me.
Just falling….
As the clouds drift off.