Eastward or
westward passages.
It does not matter.
I still follow the
magic of words.
And the singing
and chanting.
Within and outside
each different way.

Spring is coming
The streets are flush
with expectancy.
The hoarfrost
a distant memory.
When the coughing ceases.
We are united.
Waiting patiently for
voice of the cicadas.

​

We sat drinking coffee.
You asked me if I ever felt
I had been forgotten by the world?
I smiled at this unusual question.
As the birds vanished into the sky.

I think life is what it is.
Caught in the snare of love and pain.
The streets are also what they are.
So are people, the trees,
the flowers, the rivers and mountains.

Day by day, do you notice
all this life around you?
I am as forgotten as life.
Sometimes, I sit with my
pen and my journal.
And write down my thoughts.

Wherever I am, I am part
of the universe.
I am as forgotten as the universe.
However, I have a world
beyond the ups and downs.
And the numerous moons and suns.

A world of spontaneity.
Of the self and the way.
This was born within me.
It is born within us all.
I am never forgotten in this world.

Throughout the long nights.
There is darkness
and more darkness.
Nothing can be seen.
But I have no intention
of passing into extinction.
So, I contemplate the way.
Searching for what I know.
Lotus blossom here and there.
Soaring birds crossing the sky.
A poet going through the
world, one step at a time.
And the sound of the bell,
floating in light.
As if by magic the darkness ends.
All the flowers mount the heights.
And emptiness becomes form.

​

​
​From eyes, from ears.
​But mostly from the mind.
​I am not on the battlefield
​day by day.
​
​I am in a world of moments.
​Of quiet dreams and
​a tiny gentleness.
​A servant to my inner spirit.
​
​That sees the world as it is.
​Sometimes blazing up
​and sometimes meek and mild.
​But never wishing
to be anywhere else.

​
​Was it you
​who came to me
​in a dream?
​
​Like a summer
passion flower.
​With no limits.
​
​Was it even a dream.
​Or was it reality –
all those years ago?
​
​No matter, I hope
​you can come to me again.
​Sleeping or awake.

Released dreams go nowhere.
Like a path you can never take.
Better to focus on the small
beautiful moments, not always
seen through the eyes.
Then send the news along.
Like turning on the light.

If one lives
just for the self.
There is silence and
the search still remains.
If one lives to help
others in peace and solidarity.
There is less silencing
and more becoming.
No more dreaming that life is joy.
Just time to play many parts,
before the end comes.

​

“Why do you so earnestly
work?” asked a colleague.
Sipping my coffee,
listening to the rain fall.
And rooting for the
the soul of things.
I replied “A lack of inspiration”.
As I left, I thought again.
I should have said
“Because of the baggage
I cannot throw off”.

​
​Some people wait for the sun.
​Some for the moon.
​I waited only for you.
​To fill the land with your beauty.
​Until our life ended.
​One day, wrapped in
evening ​mist, it ended.
​All creatures that live,
​in the end die.
​Sometimes with no one there.
​But the world was
always ours (to the end).