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.

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.

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.

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.

After Cremation

The ashes sing—

Slave to nothing . . . 

Servant of all.

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.

Refinement

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.

Each Step, the Way

Word transcribes a fact

that reveals a mystery—

two come one . . . at once.

Anniversarius

Returning yearly

we celebrate that

one moment in time

when our twoless twine

illumined the dark . . . 

and love whispered, thine.

Seasons Changing

We never will sate

the miracle coming till 

it's too late to stop.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Poeticism

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.

Monk Poeming

Take up thy pen

with a full heart,

an empty hand.

With forefinger

next to its thumb 

opposable

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 

disappearing

into loving

embrace of all

that is, that is

not present to 

thy blazing heart.

Love

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.

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.

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.

Stuff

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.

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.

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.

Go Figure

Best one can figure

there are but two ways

word can figure world.

Radical order:

determinism;

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.