Poems

[mYTHmAKER]

We

are closer

than you think,

not even

a breath

apart.

 

People

share air

as fish

share water

 

Would

you

drink

the water

a stranger

spit

out?

 

A fish

does

not get

upset

at

this

idea.

[manitou]

These self-written poems are awesome! Our understanding is as deep as anyone else's....

[mYTHmAKER]

[manitou]

We

are closer

than you think,

not even

a breath

apart.

 

People

share air

as fish

share water

 

Would

you

drink

the water

a stranger

spit

out?

 

A fish

does

not get

upset

at

this

idea.

 

 

How can we

separate

that which is

air or water?

An embryo

breathes

water

as a fish

gasps for

air

on the bank.

 

The Oneness

takes form

of human,

fish,

air,

water.

 

One great creature

manifesting visibly

and invisibly.

We breathe in,

We breathe out;

Such is the bellows

Of the Tao.

 

It is all connected

By an invisible web.

Edited March 10, 2011 by manitou

[steve]

I posted this about a year ago. It still speaks to me and I still feel for the Haitian victims.

 

Praise

Tina Chang

Brooklyn Poet Laureate

 

 

All night long there was digging, and the bodies like accordions

bent into their own dying instruments, and even after this,

 

after the quake, there was, in news reports, still singing:

A woman's clapping was followed by another who shuffled

 

and dragged her own apparition through the ruined streets,

though each one knew the anthem the other was singing.

 

History taught them better. No one was coming.

The film crews had their sights on the large hotels,

 

the embassies. So they set to digging with their hands

and with the shoes of those who were no longer alive.

 

And with that, night fell and fell again

like an old black pot tumbling to the ground.

 

When a man dies, the first thing that goes is his breath,

and the last thing that goes is his memory.

 

I once saw this civilization passing through a great white door,

people weeping, then the weeping was followed by the sound

 

of tambourines rattling the heavy air, something that sounded

like celebration only livelier and more holy, voices rising,

 

and then a marching into the dusty road of the next century.

When shelter is gone, find your solace on the ground.

 

And when the ground is gone, lift yourself and walk.

And after all the great monuments of your memory

 

have collapsed, with the sky steady above you,

you shatter that too, with song

[mYTHmAKER]

Die,

it is set.

Destiny.

 

Sure,

surrender,

end,

under.

 

Deceased,

cease,

dead,

ease.

 

Goddess.

God.

Dog.

Sod.

 

Mother,

moth,

hot,

home.

 

Earth,

father,

heart,

her.

 

Trifle,

life,

if,

lie.

 

Death,

eat,

heat.

 

Decompose,

cope,

depose.

 

Bode,

goodbye.

Body

good-

bye.

 

Corpse.

Rose.

[Mark Saltveit]

Why I Keep a Diary

 

 

While I follow the wind

there is no wind. Because

my wings are silent. I follow

the coast and find these pines

wrapped in their wind,

those old believers.

 

And I know that I am alive

and this is the world's trail

a day, a day, a day

much on its own track.

Where did the others go?

 

Pacemaker sun, persuader,

and heart that wants to beat

(and then the soul's one stride):

my destiny is to find

this coast I follow.

 

 

-- William Stafford

 

I love that initial image -- a bird following the wind, like you see some times, not flapping, just coasting. And there is no wind, relative to the bird. He is the wind, and it is the coast that blows by.

Edited March 11, 2011 by Mark Saltveit

[manitou]

$8.99

 

I love beautiful pens,

Sparkling, metallic or

jewelled.

I find it impossible

to pass a display case.

I must stop, look,

Admire.

Sometimes purchase.

 

Aah! A shimmering beauty

Hanging in its plastic case

In aisle 12.

I take it down,

pressing the case to my chest,

my heart swollen with admiration

but torn at the realization that

I have brought no money.

 

My purse looms gaping,

tempting with its large dark opening.

How easy it would be

to drop it inside.

A furtive glance up the aisle.

I am alone!

 

From deep inside me

rises a chuckle.

I smile at myself

and return the pen to its rightful place

Realizing the value I had nearly placed

On my soul today

was $8.99

[Ulises]

Passion and compassion, holding and letting go ~

This ache in your heart is holy.

Accept it as the rise of intimacy

With life's secret ways.

 

...The Radiance Sutras

Lorin Roche

[King Kabalabhati]

after the rain

on a sand road

beauty glows

and bows deep

 

 

(Excerpt from a song by Dave Lindholm, translated from Finnish by KK)

[Everything]

$8.99

 

I love beautiful pens,

Sparkling, metallic or

jewelled.

I find it impossible

to pass a display case.

I must stop, look,

Admire.

Sometimes purchase.

 

Aah! A shimmering beauty

Hanging in its plastic case

In aisle 12.

I take it down,

pressing the case to my chest,

my heart swollen with admiration

but torn at the realization that

I have brought no money.

 

My purse looms gaping,

tempting with its large dark opening.

How easy it would be

to drop it inside.

A furtive glance up the aisle.

I am alone!

 

From deep inside me

rises a chuckle.

I smile at myself

and return the pen to its rightful place

Realizing the value I had nearly placed

On my soul today

was $8.99

Yeah, shopping malls have a way of creating desire and praising all materials. I woulden't even mind when someone steals something there. They display the beautiful with utmost care and esteem their value aswell trough all kinds of commercials. We could steal it all and flush trough the toilet, but lets not... Our toilets would become jammed.

Edited March 16, 2011 by Everything

[Everything]

after the rain

on a sand road

beauty glows

and bows deep

 

 

(Excerpt from a song by Dave Lindholm, translated from Finnish by KK)

When I was a small child I always thought that those suggar you put in tea were beautiful crystals. Never understood how people could value a diamond so much since the beach is full of diamonds aswell... And when it rains, the beauty does glow and bow deep.

[King Kabalabhati]

When I was a small child I always thought that those suggar you put in tea were beautiful crystals. Never understood how people could value a diamond so much since the beach is full of diamonds aswell... And when it rains, the beauty does glow and bow deep.

 

Yep this singer I quoted seems to value humble beauty, or think that true beauty is really humble. Something that's not very hard to relate to. Also, the image of a small sandy forest road comes vividly into my mind whenever I hear these lyrics.. May also include some sweet nostalgia from childhood

[manitou]

RIGHT ACTION

 

We walk through many doors

searching for definition of the Undefineable.

We search the Bible

The Baghavad Gita,

The Tao Te Ching.

 

We get dunked, saved,

and swarmed by Passionate Praying People.

We tearfully lay bare ours souls at altar calls.

We cling to the words of others,

Jesus, Buddha, Annie Besant, Lao Tzu

Yearning for definition

But we have found Understanding through Action.

 

If you are homeless and dirty

perhaps one of us will stop to chat

so you may feel more human.

If you are rich and well-heeled

perhaps we will approach you without fear or jealousy.

If you are great and famous

we will love you anyway, although your brilliant essence

only serves to showcase our own inadequacies.

 

If we must take difficult action

or do something you will dislike, we will try to do it gently,

always considering your tender heart.

We will look at you through the eyes of our soul

and try to see where you stand on your path

knowing that we can expect no more from you

than you are capable of giving.

 

We will not always expect you to keep your word

if your past actions show us otherwise.

We must be a bit wiser and understand that

we have been let down only by our own foolish expectations.

 

We who try to be true to Right Action

understand what the real challenges of life are,

They are all within;

And that is where the true Journey begins.

 

 

Barb Ortega

Edited March 16, 2011 by manitou

[Apech]

Just to bump my old thread ... another poem by Fernando Pessoa

 

I lie down in the grass

And forget all I was taught.

What I was taught never made me any warmer or cooler.

What I was told exists never changed the shape of a thing.

What I was made to see never touched my eyes.

What was pointed out to me was never there: only what was there was there.

[manitou]

Thanks for bumpin' your thread, Apeche. Gives me a chance to post another. Apparently I crave the attention.

 

 

NO ANSWERS HERE

 

Is it not possible

That time is an illusion,

A creation of our linear minds

To bring order to chaos?

 

Is it not possible

That a mere man named Einstein was on to something

When he proved that time is curved

And intersects with space?

 

Is there a chance

That time curves back upon itself

In a huge unbroken circle,

Past and Future being but illusions of our own creation

To explain the ever-present Now?

 

Could it possibly be that our vision is terribly hampered

By the stage of evolution

Of the rods and cones of our eyes

Or the limited capacity of our minds?

 

What of the sonar universe of the bat?

What of the audible universe of the dog?

The migratory instinct of a bird?

Or the drive of the salmon?

 

Are these not proof enough

Of other planes of existence?

Is it not the ultimate arrogance

To believe ours to be the only anthill?

 

Does it not seem likely

That Science and Philosophy are merely

Walking up the same hill on opposite sides;

Perhaps to find at the point of synthesis

That Thought is the basis for Energy?

 

Is it not probable

That religion is a creation of man's mind

Craving answers to the unanswerable,

To give form to no-form?

 

Is it Truth or Legend

That to Jesus is assigned by some a virgin birth?

For to the lovers of Buddha

To Buddha is also assigned by some the very same.

Could this be a manifestation of our need

To bring a God of our understanding to earth?

 

Could not the Truth be

The common need to Understand,

Uniting all men ot thought, religion, and science

In search of that which

We have not quite yet evolved to see?

 

Is it not possible that we share the same soul,

Our apparent separation into visually distinct bodies

Only an illusion?

Could it be that our One Soul is in fact an entity

That evolves upward toward the light?

 

Could it be that there is a Uniting Intelligence

Ever propelling us upward?

Whether called Love, Compassion, or the Theory of Attraction

Once tapped, it lights our way

Creating order from chaos?

 

I merely Know and cannot prove that these are truths;

The ringing assent of my own heart my only proof.

And do I even have the words to explain this to another?

I wish I did; I do not.

 

 

Barb Ortega

[Ulises]

[Nanashi]

[C T]

Ten thousand flowers in spring,

the moon in autumn,

a cool breeze in summer,

snow in winter.

If the mind isn't clouded by unnecessary things

this is the best season of your life.

 

Wu-Men

[C T]

lete.

Edited April 20, 2011 by CowTao

[Apech]

Bent double, like old beggars under sacks,

Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,

Till on the haunting flares we turned out backs,

And towards our distant rest began to trudge.

Men marched asleep. Many had lost their boots,

But limped on, blood-shod. All went lame, all blind;

Drunk with fatigue; deaf even to the hoots

Of gas-shells dropping softly behind.

 

Gas! GAS! Quick, boys!--An ecstasy of fumbling

Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time,

But someone still was yelling out and stumbling

And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime.--

Dim through the misty panes and thick green light,

As under a green sea, I saw him drowning.

 

In all my dreams before my helpless sight

He plunges at me, guttering, choking, drowning.

 

If in some smothering dreams, you too could pace

Behind the wagon that we flung him in,

And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,

His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin,

If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood

Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs

Bitter as the cud

Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,--

My friend, you would not tell with such high zest

To children ardent for some desperate glory,

The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est

Pro patria mori.

 

 

 

 

- Wilfred Owen

 

 

[Ulises]

[Ulises]

THE PLACE OF REST

 

The soul is its own witness and its own refuge.

 

 

Unto the deep the deep heart goes,

It lays its sadness nigh the breast:

Only the Mighty Mother knows

The wounds that quiver unconfessed.

 

It seeks a deeper silence still;

It folds itself around with peace,

Where thoughts alike of good or ill

In quietness unfostered cease.

 

It feels in the unwounding vast

For comfort for its hopes and fears:

The Mighty Mother bows at last;

She listens to her children's tears.

 

Where the last anguish deepens -- there

The fire of beauty smites through pain:

A glory moves amid despair,

The Mother takes her child again.

 

~A. E. (George William Russell)

[steve]

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous

to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the

mouths of the lambs.

How rivers and stones are forever

in allegiance with gravity

while we ourselves dream of rising.

How two hands touch and the bonds will

never be broken.

How people come, from delight or the

scars of damage,

to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those

who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say

“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,

and bow their heads.

 

~ Mary Oliver

 

 

[Mark Foote]

I found this poem in the San Francisco Chronicle in the '60's, and carried it in my wallet until the wallet fell in the ocean about thirty years later.  That was before the internet, so the poem was lost to me for another twenty years.  Glad to have it back in my life:
 

I AM Raferty the Poet     Full of hope and love,   With eyes that have no light,     With gentleness that has no misery.     Going west upon my pilgrimage            By the light of my heart,   Feeble and tired     To the end of my road.     Behold me now,     And my face to the wall,          A-playing music     Unto empty pockets.     Raferty, a Connacht peasant poet, while at some festivity, heard someone asking who he was. He was then blind and a fiddler. Turning around he made this perfect utterance. Raftery died in 1835. His poems have been collected, edited and translated by Dr. Douglas Hyde. (Bartleby.com)

Edited October 14, 2022 by Mark Foote