This is the way I travel.
No sacred way.
No illusions.
No desire.
No paths to follow.
No fear of life and death.
Just to walk
and be one with
life around me.
This way, each step
becomes a new life.
No paths to follow
A love for what is
If I am still.
There is only one
life I can call my own.
The one right now.
Held to my own truth.
Unrelenting in its embrace.
I no longer wonder why
And when the shadows came.
They were more
playful than I expected.
No desolate landscapes.
Or threads of sorrows appeared.
Just a lion of courage.
And the swelling
presence of a solo voice.
Such precious memories
to remember.
Why waste this precious life?
The new year has come.
All the Bodhisattvas
of the Earth are happy.
Dwelling on something so temporary.
They are happy to be alive.
To have a quality of the mind.
And still have hope that
continuous change
and connection with others.
Can bring about understanding
and everlasting peace.
What a year
What shall I make of this year?
No more or less
than the years before.
Sometimes days and
nights of solitude.
Saying to myself;
”I am alone, alone”.
And then…..
Days, more days.
When I say to myself.
”I am at my best,
and best again.
The happy genius
of my words.
Cold clarity
Today, as I go silent.
Not a hint of a shadow.
Despite the gloom
all over our world.
For I think everything
is in my mind.
Drifting here and there.
I usually end up with a
smile on my face.
Thinking to myself,
there is no path but this one.
Winter seclusion
The sky, the people,
and me.
Is this one?
Is this two?
Is this three?
No.
All are unique.
All are blessed.
And all are one.
Until the spring
A winter chill
griping Hangzhou.
In my solitide.
I still find time
for blossom friends
and good coffee.
Enough for the
journey ahead.
And the spring
winds to come.
The spirit of humble people
Above the streets
clouds sing winter songs.
About the good old days.
When poets wandered around.
And the yellow leaves
and cold east wind.
Seemed only to
live in the moment.
Cooking rice for dinner
I call it a sky.
I call it the streets.
I call it a mountain.
Grasping at nothing,
discarding nothing.
Nothing is unusual.
And still, I have
not spoken of emptiness.
Or passing the Zen barrier.
A Wandering Poet 