The deep night breathes quietly,
as the light fades on my palm.
But between life and death,
I still have things on my mind.

Each day that absence grows,
I take wings through the
tears and lamentations.
And see the misery of my wanderings.

Upon my return,
I see dances of devotion
a union of body and mind.
I am awake, the nearest
thing to being free.

Life is clouds, and words
emerging from a darkness.
Empty I entered… but I will
leave with simple things
untangled.

Turning to the sun or moon,
two awakenings..
and one sleep.
I will say my peace,
and see the pine boughs untied.

rhdr

By day and night
I was alone inside.
Everyone, seemed lost,
betrayed, used and sold.
Shedding the visible dark,
I found what is lowly
and beautiful with existence.
A splendid fire,
to nourish the skies,
the wind and the
labour of words.

Summer will not stay,
one-by-one the birds fly home.
Then I am alone,
mindful of the spirit
that drifts on a journey-ill.
Roots that cannot be forgotten,
but no longer permanent.
A passing shower in my heart.

rpt

My soul, awake at dawn
a solitary voice
in a foreign land.
Then I remembered,
how to live when
nothing is born.
And taste each moment,
of nectar blessed.

rhdr

Awake at midnight,
the east wind is rustling.
Lines of words spun,
cloaked in moon frost.
Still, no love….
but lines of verse.
Each gulp,
a taste of nectar.

hdrpl

rhdr

hdrpl

Some pictures I took in Seoul. A poem I wrote this morning.

Autumn wind,
gashes and darkness to come.
I gaze at the flowers,
colour and fragrance almost gone.
Yet, with the wind
a koan clear mind.
Mirrored in this glory.

dav

dav

Sometimes a journey of self – discovery begins is unexpected places. I took these pictures in Xiahe, Gansu Province. China I wrote this poem this afternoon.

The river flows by,
the clouds float by,
no miracles occurred.
Just today, this moment, this hour.

There is everything in it,
day-after-day.
Until, in the shadow of death
I write my final words.

dav

Some pictures I took in Vietnam. A short poem I wrote this afternoon.

I write, as the last of
the summer flowers
hold the air.
Alone, the dead know peace.
Until they bloom again,
turning the wind.

Some pictures I took and a poem I wrote yesterday.

This is the way we travel,
to hide from the world.
Satisfied with tall grass
and pines.

But upon this floating
dream world
The day, the earth and I
grow dark as one.