Cold days, warm days.
A fading fairy tale land
in a changing world.
This is why I never go back.
Too many empty lots and shadows.
I am happy to live in the present.
And be nothing more than a whisper.
In a universe that flows
this way, and that way.

​
​At the south window.
​A freezing wind threatens
​the dense loneliness.
​As quick as I can.
​I head towards the center.
​And sit amongst the clouds.
​With mind, mind and mind.
​I calm the heart and soul of things.
​And see truly, there was nothing
​nothing there to begin with.

In the realm of
infatuation and desire.
A day doesn’t pass
without its problems.
Even the monks
sometimes return
with empty begging bowls.
Yet, the mountains
are not moved.
The rivers flow on unaware.
And the drifting
clouds hardly linger
This is the way of all things.
Excepting this can
bring a kind of peace.

​A deep winter chill.
And the temple bells silent.
​Before the years end.

​These are not the
​matters of the Buddha.
​But those of mortal beings.

By each day.
Your mind rests
on its craftsmanship.
Your care evokes
the deepest affection.
The December sky
has nothing on your spirit.
And in your presence,
happiness and unhappiness,
do not enter my world.
I shall return to see you again.

A path a bird follows.
I will follow.
It begins with what
I need to do.
It ends with
what I have done.
And in between?
A life of wisdom and principle.
Sharing the joys and
sufferings of others.

A cold December
day in Hangzhou.
The first day of
student final exams.
Ahead of me, many
hours of addressing
the new leaves that
come from old leaves.
My true nature within me
and enough sense to care.
The day progressed.
My friend, the Chinese lady
who reads books in
English came to visit
With a smile and coffee.
Then the precious
friendship bloomed.
And the precious learning
was flowing like a river.
Gratitude to all of this.
Let us return again and again.
​

Clambering my way to work.
I greeted the morning moon.
It asked me,
“How is your search for
meaning going?”

My reply was simply
and to the point.
All the Buddhas are alway here.
There is no more meaning
or enlightenment needed.

​
​

To write a poem,
or to not write a poem.
What is the difference?
Words are words.
They are in my head.
They are in my fingers.
With each word
life does not restart.
With each word I am still misled
by the strangers I meet.
But these are indispensable
reasons to write my poems.
And, I am not misled by you.

​

​I look up at the sky.
​No, I am not hoping
​that anything goes away.
​I am not trying to prevent
​anything from happening.
​For I accept nature’s way.
​I look up at the sky to
​know I am part of a whole.
​And for a feeling that
takes ​me out of myself.
​With everything coming and going.
​Just as it always has.