No Thorns in the Void

There are no thorns in the void,

Though you may pull

With all your might

You never can extract them.

There are no thrones in the void,

Though you may strive

All the days of your life,

You never will ascend them.

Mistaking one for the other

Will not make your task any easier,

For there are no thorns,

There are no thrones

In the void.

Now just answer me this,

Who is it that pulls?

Who is it that strains?

Who is it that puts their bloody

Shoulder to the wheel?

When there are no thrones,

You see,

No thorns,

In the Void.

I find myself these days spending far more time in the hospital than I would like. But I also have found the enforced quiet time of a three day stay to be quite conducive to study, reflection and especially to writing poetry. This poem had its' genesis in the reading of Thomas Cleary's translation of the Sui dynasty classic "Mo-ho Chih-kuan", or "Great Stopping and Seeing".

Written some time in the Sixth century, this work is a collection of lectures by the great T'ien-t'ai master Chih-i, and is a comprehensive course on the practices of Buddhist meditation. This work was one of the so-called Three Great Works of T'ien-t'ai Buddhism, but was also a source book for both Pure Land and Zen practitioners. Cleary's translation covers only the first quarter of the massive text, but it is a fascinating read.

It was rather late one night when I came across the line "There are no thorns in the void.", but my tired eyes at first saw "throne" instead of "thorn". I realized my error right away, but the thought took hold, a juxtaposition of these two words seemed to yield intriguing associations and a poem was born.

If you'd like to read "Stopping and Seeing" for yourself, it is available in the collection "Classics of Buddhism and Zen - Volume Five" by Thomas Cleary, from Shambala Publications.

Is It Just Me?

This from this morning's paper. Who else on Earth gets this kind of press?

Sunset

Sunset flares,

Blue, crimson and white.

Vast dome of twilight

Stretches empty,

Full of light.

Birds take flight

Borne on chilly breeze.

Standing silent, we watch,

No words,

Save these.

My Own Left Hand

Old friend, dread killer,

We met first so many years ago,

In a moonbeam stream

On a jungle floor.

When I saw your coiled power,

Your razor talons and bonecrack jaws,

Did I not gasp with fear?

Though your jagged stripes rippled

In the blue-beam light,

Though you crept ever toward me,

Your feet never touched the broken stones

And twisted roots of Mother Earth.

It was then I knew that you stood not

Amid those darkened tress,

But in the darker forest of my heart.

Now forty years have vanished

Like sooty smoke from a camp-fire,

Caught by a sudden breeze,

But still I know that you are with me.

My constant friend,

My own left hand.

I see your eyes in my own eyes reflected

In the still pool of night,

The full moon, silver, riding high

Above our shoulder in the sky.

I found this amazing tiger image by Getsu Tora at: www.uniquedaily.com/ electric-tiger/

This site has many very cool photos and graphics. Check it out!

A Possibility

In this troubled time,

Dear brother,

Consider this possibility;

God may find our tears

As beautiful as

He does our smile.

It will come as no surprise when I say that this poem is the product of adversity. The dear brother I address is really no one other than myself. The tears are my own, as is the smile. All is not well in Transplant Land, and my medical situation grows slowly worse. But, strange to say, as my body becomes more problematic my spirit seems to grow brighter, or at least, clearer.

A view has been growing in me that no one moment that we experience is any more significant or special than the next. Loss and gain, victory or defeat, all pale when we live just in this present moment, taking it just as it is, thoroughly examining it and living it. What appears good one moment may look bad the next, one's latest misfortune may reveal itself as to be a lucky break. When we rush to judge the quality of one moment, we may miss the arc of the trajectory of time, the face of the whole. The one contains the whole, the whole contains the one. Be still, and watch this lovely petal unfold!

"The Way is not difficult for those who avoid picking and choosing."

The photo is one I took recently during a rainstorm in Utah, just south of St. George.

Buddhas of Gold and Jade

Buddhas of gold and jade

Come and go,

Arriving on the 15 th,

Departing on the 1st.

Thousands came to see the statue,

How many saw the Buddha?

That Question

To that question

You could never

Ask me,

I still

Don't have

An Answer.

What are those questions that we can never ask? Too personal, too painful, too close to the answer we think we already know, to the answer we don't wish to hear? Is there knowledge we really don't want to have? Skeletons better left in closets? Loves that ought not speak their names? Dead better left buried and forgotten?

Questions hang unasked in the air, potentials not actualized, thresholds unpassed. How can we reply? Perhaps we feel that unformed question and strain to hear it. We lean into the moment to catch a hint. Do we dare to break the spell of silence and give voice to the question we feel is hanging between us? Can we tear away the veil?

To act in response to unasked questions, to projections of questions that really are our own gives rise to a world of shadow boxing, puppets dancing in thin air. What you think that unasked question is may be really nothing more than your own question to yourself. Do you have an answer now?