RSS

Tag Archives: Zen

The Gift Of Free Will At Sunrise

      I shall not seek Thee —in a stiff collar of white or colorless turbine. Or, robes of wool…covering skin dark or light over bones disguised in cloaks of Yellow, Orange, Brown, and lest not we forget Cremora White!

      —You have no need to convince me of the fig leaf on my soul! I have acknowledged its presence. I will find its place in the empty void.

      I shall find You —by going forward and leaving me alone.

In valley below

winter thaws upcoming spring

On Holderness Road

 

Advertisements
 
 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Notes That Started The Morning Fire.

I burnt my breakfast with brown butter and garlic.

It rose above the perfumed oiled scent of progress;

—creeping through the cracks of my window sills

wafting  silently,  carrying the day’s

chain-linked smog…breaking in with

—my paycheck’s upcoming arena.

Oops, I meant, aroma.

For a moment I choose to linger

asking for only a cherry tree.

 

I welcome the reservation that you

have set aside for me.

No need to build me a fence—

I am locked inside.

~~~~~

Do I talk to myself? Me and him?

Of course! Who else would listen?

How would I know when to stoke the wood stove

and make coffee, home fries, and scramble eggs?

I always tell myself what to do.

I am vetted by my soul,

Me:

The web, trickling inadvertently behind me, as I walk through space

Connects me to another square that I had left!

Never touching the ground, I wait with patience

in silk expectation —for a life, now to be defined.

Him:

The thread of your existence is never behind!

Nor could it manufacture a web to connect

to illusive time!

Shake off that wiggle… trickling inadvertently behind!

 

           

Hey! Anyone up for coffee, home fries, and scramble eggs?

 
7 Comments

Posted by on February 8, 2018 in Experimental, Life, Outlaw, Poetry, thoughts, Zen

 

Tags: , , ,

Notes Found On The Refrigerator January 2018

Embrace liberty with visions unimaginable

assist each other— Your soul is also theirs.

Greet each day in the Absolute freedom of living.

~

Each inhale —exhale

releases the sun and moon;

why tomorrow always wears a gown.

~

Whatever we learn

It is natural to see what truth will be;

regardless of our opinion.

 ~

 

“a painting of cakes won’t fill the belly!” Kuei shan

Foolish Nostalgia

I had a dream where I entered a playground of memories

Lush with trees, shrubbery, sand boxes, and swings.

 

  With a smile

I walked past where absence was lost.

 

In my dream,

I caught myself walking past awakening.

 

Now— here I am

Hungry—

 

wondering what’s for breakfast?

 
14 Comments

Posted by on February 4, 2018 in Life, Nature, Poetry, Zen

 

Tags: , , ,

Five Verses From a Brief Visit This Solstice With Ch’an

On Judgment:

“If we didn’t see things fine and coarse

How could prejudice exist?”

~Relying on Mind~ Ch’an master Seng-Ts’an (J., Sozan)

 

~~~~~

I practiced non-discrimination

and had smiled often at my gestures—

until I was slapped by a whisk.

~~~~~

I understand how wrong I’ve been

and the shame I have brought to the other—

Each day wakes me quieter  —clearer than ever.

~

Moments may be still –yet moves forever.

~~~~~

Causes are great —equal to the clouds

one may be greater than the other.

Dew is clear as no sound is loud.

~~~~~

What is it that I see— to bench myself in judgment?

Opinions are statutes!

Saddle my horse—

Giddy-up! I shall ride with the outlaws.

~~~~~

How does one heal from history

With its invisible scars and drooping eyes?

Thatch a new roof— and shush the flies.

“Jesus said:

If two make peace with each other

In this single house,

They will say to the mountain

“Move away”

And it shall move.””

 

~The Gospel of Thomas~[48p n] presented by Huge McGregor Ross

 

 

 ~Pine Cone Diary~ -proof 2018

 
16 Comments

Posted by on January 20, 2018 in Beginnings, Outlaw, Pine Cone Diaries, Poetry, Sittting still, Zen

 

Tags: , , , , ,

Notes found on the refrigerator November 2017

Although I enjoy the ease of a sidewalk

I often preferred cutting across the lawn

     *****

I can only do one thing at a time

Even if takes me two

Or three tries

 

I was listening to music on my earphones

And found the sound unclear—

I adjusted the volume

—nothing

I went to the settings

—no adjustment required.

Suggested, I plug them in

And printed,

Did you find this helpful?

Yes, I knew I should be grocery shopping

     *****

A Writer’s Confession:

     As a writer, I may not necessarily write about my own personal experiences.

 Although they influence perception and understanding, they often are not themselves; the words that are written. They are only reflections of me as a writer.

     My characters  are in constant flux… as I… also see and feel my way through each moment—

experiencing what others and what I see, and what  is being  seen —what we universally have in common ambiguity. Often I am just a humble hapless observer making it written into words as only it could be, from the source of a perceptive and creative writer.

     *****

How are we able to see the darkness

in the center of the light

and be able to see the light

in the center of darkness?

We see its impermanence.

as in all nature

every day is greater

doing what you need

 
20 Comments

Posted by on December 16, 2017 in prose, Sittting still, thoughts, Zen

 

Tags: , , , ,

A November Divorce

 

     I’m back from Ashland, the small town’s only laundry mat. I haven’t been to one of those since I was single. Now, older as things get ignored, I wait until I run out of socks and underwear. Oh, and tee shirts they’re always along side two or three more.

     Two pillow cases in and only one with all folded, coming out. Sometimes, it’s both being carried out when I take the sheets, towels, a couple of dress shirts, and a few blue jeans, at the heel with frayed threads falling out. But today its tee shirts, socks, and underwear; one pillow case, the other carried inside out.

      I have been in my robe all week, tee shirts and underwear underneath. Yesterday I was remembering a place with a washer and a dryer. Where it was my turn to do the laundry, a turn I would keep. I would turn on a blaring rock and roll radio station, sorting whites from colors. Sometimes I would inject a little shuffle and dance as I  measured softener and twenty-mule team borax, half a cup or more singing out loud almost in a holler.

       From gentle to hard-core, as the cycles went. Washing, drying, and folding. Picking up the kitchen in-between the squashing and swirling I would sweep the floor. With things sorted from white, colors and who knows what. I did two maybe even three loads. But, ah, back to my rented room in its ultimate bore.

     On my inherited mother’s nicked kitchen table, on a lace doily gathering dust, sits a blue antique bottle and this summer’s dried flowers. I laid my car keys and emptied my pockets making them lighter of contents, putting them on her table.

     Two straight-backed chairs next to yesterdays mail, the morning sun struck the table, breaking through the windows hazed of last night’s cigarette smoke, I heard a voice from my past, as my mother spoke, telling me to at least, “keep yourself clean, don’t live precariously, do your laundry, every week, listen to me, please!”

     I’m back from Ashland, the small town’s only laundry mat.     I haven’t been to one of those since I was single or with my mother as a child; since my divorce.

Photo by RKG

 
4 Comments

Posted by on November 11, 2017 in Divorced, Getting Old, Love, New Hampshire, Prose Poetry, short story, Zen

 

Tags: , , , , ,

A Lady In The Mirror

      It was a great race between Reflection and Essence; running through the mountains and across the lakes of New Hampshire. They crossed the border through Pittsburg into Canada, where only shadows could follow.

       Chasing each other or being chased they finished their race in the old City of Quebec; drifting into a boarding house up one flight of stairs— across from the Château Frontenac. And, there on a rooming house mirror— they caught up.

 

She is the reflection— that is, in essence, what becomes ~A Lady in the mirror~

Reflection’s true Essence? Perhaps what we are like, before we are born.

 

Photo by RKG: Quebec City, Quebec Canada late 1970’s

Written; 10/30/2017

 
 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

 
%d bloggers like this: