Along the way,
I leave a footprint or two.
Not the ones
that take five thousand
words of pain and loss.
Full of ghosts and fog.
But the ones
with name-and-form.
Full of spiritual energy.
And not yet fully realized.

You ask me why
I dwell in the present.
The streets are
are what they are.
And there is no point
searching for truth,
day after day.
Or something that
purifies the spirit.
Everything is here.
The sun lights up my window.
And I fill my own cup of coffee.
That is enough for me.

Beyond the beyond.
There lies a world where
I leap from depths.
To see the lotus
on the other side.
And a summer breeze
drives away the rainclouds.
See…..
I told you so.

One moon.
One sun.
And one me.
For some that is
more than enough.
But within the
raging fire.
There is always
a true peak.
And I am not there yet.
So, I will make
the days stretch.
Inhale, exhale
and move on.
All change in each step.

​

Spring gives way to summer.
And I am teeming with words.
Each word nothing good or bad.
Thinking is enough.
I just want to take 
happiness around with me.
Showing what matters in my life.
How useless then, to worry
about what others think.
As if by magic….
Another word, another rebirth.

Just yesterday, it seems.
Everything was still
being delivered.
Day after day,
whispers of our desires.
Then the rain came.
Such stuff and nonsense.
I could no longer see the lotus.
But, set outside the clouds.
And in sync with your love.
The first new day.
Peeking in from a distance.
Another place, another time.
Now I know that each moment,
belongs to the wind.

The sky the same old sky.
The streets the same old streets.
The people, like slow burning
stars and more beautiful than ever. 

Walking along, so much I see.
I have become the thingness
of all that is around me.
Removed from joy and sorrow.

It is, it isn’t.
I mean a good life.
Too much self-pain.
Or not enough of the
sun’s gentle warmth.
Which should I choose?
I think the one were
unhappiness dissolves.
And life renews
itself, again.

Between buildings
and buildings.
Between the show ponies
and their handlers.
The poets are here.

Attacked and harassed
by those who
consider no wrong.
They are still aroused by
the magic of words.

All they want to do,
like summer bees.
Is to show the way.
To where the best
nectar is located.

Inferior glory
or superior failure –
which will it be?
I have experienced both.
Sometimes in an
atmosphere of death.
Other times gazing
at the tranquility
swirling around me.
But then, life was never
just about getting by.
Each moment was fulfilled
to the best it could be.
And always within my reach.