‘Tis hard to tell the difference between
monk poems and others. I do sense this.
Poems draw out feeling, monk poems still
all emotion, point to a thing’s true birth.
True birth is what a thing is, as own self
slips away — if we let go our grasping.
Right now, look around you. What’s there to see?
If blind, what to hear? If deaf, what to touch?
Then go inside to sense what you feel, think
or will there. What you can sense, you are not.
Taken to its utter end you are what
senses. And to sense is to be aware.
You are the awareness that lets you sense
anything at all. That Which lets all be.
All things void of own self being swim in
consciousness, itself empty, at once full
of all that swims there, naked. And yet in
relation, these naked things do make up
an ocean of emptiness. That is sheer
generosity, for from this comes life
that is full of grit, that is full of grace.
From the grit we do find ground to grow on.
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