Monday, August 31, 2015

Self Alignment

Commitments with convictions.
Conflicting interests, all.
Path with communal purpose. 
Purposefulness with keen skill.
Skillful means with core values.
Core concerns with social use.
Social use with spirit growth . . .

leading to action that is
personally satisfying
socially productive 
spiritually sustaining.

Sunday, August 30, 2015

On Facebook I Saw

On Facebook I saw
that the same letters

rearranged make up 
two words, belonging

with one another . . .
listen  &  silent,

apposites of yore,
as in, to listen

mind must be silent,
and to be silent 

mind has to listen—
no own self-being

can do both at once.
Holy writ doth say,

Let go your soul’s yen:
lose self to find Self.

Saturday, August 29, 2015

Clouds Unknowing

Seven southern days 
it has rained some, so
all’s green with envy

of a dry spell . . . well,
not like unto the
hell rising yonder

in the western hills
and valleys that need
torrential waters.

One fine day may be
we’ll be capturing 
clouds here, to share there.

Friday, August 28, 2015

Writer’s Block?

There is a sure cure . . .
open the eyes wide
and thy heart wider.

Then listen for things
speaking their stories 
from between the lines.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Beyond Consignment

Renowned figures of 
science seem content

consigning to time’s
dustbin, religion.

You’d think they’d apply 
their refined method

to study firsthand
her very object:

consciousness.  Instead,
they pick out the hand-

me-down remnants to
pick on, as if these

surface features could
exhaust the subject.

To plumb the depths of 
awareness you must

wake up, and waking
you do see clear light . . .

once you let go of
your self as seer.

Yes, some religious
are just as confused

so they use their faith 
to build up own rank.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015


On days of much rain
the brook running through
Overton Park roars . . .

otherwise it crawls,
like today, and yet
it always babbles,

like a glass of fine
wine, a refined word, 
nay, a monkpoem.

Monday, August 24, 2015

Each Step, the Way

Word transcribes a fact
that reveals a mystery—
two come one . . . at once.

Sunday, August 23, 2015


Returning yearly
we celebrate that

one moment in time
when our twoless twine

illumined the dark . . . 
and love whispered, thine.

Saturday, August 22, 2015

Seasons Changing

We never will sate
the miracle coming till 
it's too late to stop.

Friday, August 21, 2015

Lost Time

Making poems proves
a fine way to pass

the time, taking the
focus of a priest 

and the patience of 
a prophet of doom . . .

neither of whom has
room for keeping time

which melts in the mist 
of feeling be-ing.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Small Talk

High school reunions
involve much small talk

and he did talk small
at a Fiftieth . . .

his wife’s, but then he
learned a large lesson:

the more attentive
he was to the small

the deeper he felt
the tall vibrations

and the more able
to share them with all

even the stranger 
he could not recall

so, lo and behold,
by end of the ball 

the two were of one
political call.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Crow Stuck in the Craw

On a morning walk
I did hear the sound . . .

a shrill “caw-caw” that
stayed with me around 

the track an hour with
no crow to be found.

From start to finish
I felt I was bound

to the bird I heard
and its song doth hound

me still, to the point
I appear so wound

as to be left with 
a single oath . . . zounds!

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Reading Ease

I taught a student
once who seemed to love
books more than people;
it was hard for her

to look another 
in the eye, for hers
when open were glued 
to a page, some book.

Brain-damaged, she read
with such attention,
you would ask of her
no more than she gave.

Things you might take for
granted, startled her,
and left her perplexed
by the noise, alone.

But the still quiet
of reading bucked up 
her spirit and she 
was at ease, reading.

Monday, August 17, 2015

Hanging Pall

On the office wall
his degrees are hung
below eye level.

On back of the door
his winter robe hangs 
alone, the year round.

Above the window
hangs a photograph
of him, three brothers.

Draping the window
hangs a sari from
a Hindu swami.

On the one bookshelf
hang together scripts
from nine religions.

Other wall hangings
remind him of his
dearest spirit kin.

In this sacred space
he hangs out, often 
making monkpoems.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

The Mist of a Mystic Mood

’Tis rare, but just now
I feel . . . rather sad,

not from what I see
before me, yet from

what I do foresee
coming round the bend,

the end of good health,
start of practicing

the finest of arts:
withering away.

Ah, it’s here . . . it’s now,
thus I do rehearse

while I await, with 
patience, my own hearse.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

Busy Day, His

A busy day for
him begins with his
waking up at five.

He celebrates that
feat with a cup of
dark-roasted coffee.

With the brew in hand
he sits—still, silent—
till the light of morn.

Then he moves to meet
the day’s eye rising
to greet him with words.

The heart open wide,
he means to say what
he sees, to full term,

all found lingering
in the lane, alone
but for his own mind

empty, so alert
to any movement . . . 
the slightest wonder.

Friday, August 14, 2015

Humble Heart

No trait is more worthy than
humility, the essence
of love.  None can match it for
joy and generosity.

Thus it is biblical script, 
The meek inherit the earth.

Thursday, August 13, 2015

Upright We Write

Upright we do write 
the earth so to reach
her high-hanging fruit.

The more upright we
stand, the more fruit we 
find to gather in.

Then one fine day when 
we cease the rite, fruit 
doth come from the hand.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Upstanding Peace

Not every itch is
created equal.

Some beg to be scratched
for the mere pleasure.

If we forego that,
utter peace may rise

like incense . . . along 
with our Uprightness.

Patience is required
for global warming,

the current mother 
of next invention.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Religion, Simply

Of all things religious, one
stands out, expressed by myth, rite,
ethic, doctrine—witnessed in 
scripture: human consciousness.

Religion’s about nothing 
if not becoming awake.

Monday, August 10, 2015

Integral Difference

Integrity involves the feeling 
of being so alive as to be 
life itself, running through things—

which means wholehearted acceptance of 
the distinctive point of view of each 
within diversity of be-ing.

Sunday, August 9, 2015


A poem depends
utterly on its
poet’s point of view.

The poet depends 
on words to order
worlds of random things.

Poets utter words
for stuttering worlds
to shine the darkness.

By such utterance
they express feeling 
of utter be-ing.

Saturday, August 8, 2015

Monk Poeming

Take up thy pen
with a full heart,
an empty hand.

With forefinger
next to its thumb 

let thy heart flame
warm up the mind
till it opens 

onto worlds of 
grizzly grit and 
glorious grace.

Never search for 
words, let them find 
thy self ever 

into loving
embrace of all

that is, that is
not present to 
thy blazing heart.

Friday, August 7, 2015


The energy saved
accepting the world
as it is, is not,
without resistance,
can then be put forth
to make things better 
from your point of view.

Thursday, August 6, 2015

The Uttering Aim

To utter what you
feel of being, is
the uttering aim

yet the truth of things
is never to aim . . . 
only to open

the mind’s eye and feel
what is, what is not
at the heart of things

and thus feeling this
to speak from thy heart
the world of thinging

till you start to feel
things of this world as 
not, apart from thee.

Wednesday, August 5, 2015

Seeing, Saying

There are things one sees
and wants so to say

but very desire
doth get in the way . . .

not unlike craving
for some beloved,

satisfied but by 
relaxing the grip.

It is like having
ones’s cake, eating it

too by transforming 
the shape of the cake

or thus losing self 
so to feel be-ing.

Tuesday, August 4, 2015


In the floor of my home office
rest seven boxes that contain 
belongings I used to store in 
a work office, till I retired.

Still they sit there, without moving,
contents out of sight, out of mind.
I last looked inside those boxes
coming upon nine years ago.

I may just wait till I die and
am standing at the pearly gates 
where, according to Jay Leno,
St Peter will ask, where’s your stuff? 

I will have a ready reply.

Monday, August 3, 2015

One Fine Day

One fine day you will know no 
suffering, yet much more pain . . . 
far more than you feel today.

When you live as full presence
your capacity for pain 
will measure your empathy.

You’ll feel every pain of now
and yet none will dismay you 
nor overwhelm the clear light.

Sunday, August 2, 2015

Out of Our Control

This morning someone I love 
is finding it hard to breathe,
so I sit mindful practice
breathing in her very stead.

With each in-breath I swallow
her every malady and 
with each out-breath I send her 
all the joy I can muster.

We must do what we can with
what is beyond our control.

Saturday, August 1, 2015

Go Figure

Best one can figure
there are but two ways
word can figure world.

Radical order:
or uncertainty.

Evidence for both
abounds, abiding
by rules we either

do find or impose
depending on our
refined points of view.

The story we tell
ourselves is likely
full of surprises.

This includes the sense
that utter nonsense
is ruled out by the

presence of our brain,
and perfect order,
by the same token.

After all, we can
stand disorder but
only for so long.

I figure the best
story we can tell
has not yet been told

nor will it, ever—
but of course that, too, 
is a point of view.

We will keep trying
till we run out of 
words to figure worlds.