Poems...

Here are about 50 poems on love, suffering, meditation and the nature of things. The poems emerged from observations, inner experiences, experiences of listening to others and spontaneous events revealing the mystery of everyday life. Most of these poems were written since 2000. I have given a very brief introduction to a number of these poems about the situation that inspired the poem. 

In a retreat in Spain, a woman in her 20's sitting in the front row slowly and silently began to cry with long teardrops rolling down her face.

1. TEARS OF A YOGI

I sat opposite her when her tears joined the cheeks
like long, slow raindrops on a summer's night.
looking intently across, I witnessed
her innocence as she gently brought
her knees to her chin
to comfort a forlorn heart

No sound emerged in the intimacy of those tears
she confided only in the quiet evening air
I could feel the pounding of her heart
with the swell of her being filling a single moment.

Her breast heaved with a quiet power
to break the dams of restraints and hardened walls
letting the tears again create downward rivulets.

I said nothing.
I had nothing to offer.
Except presence.
She said later that was more than enough.
---------------
If we took to heart the words of this reflection,
we would abide in a wondrous realm!

2. A DAILY REFLECTION

I vow to remember that today is a new day
Full of new beginnings and fresh moments
Today, I will not cling to events of yesterday nor yesteryear
But stay connected with what today brings.
I will not madly pursue my desires at the expense of others
Nor flee from challenging tasks.
I will remain true to the unfolding process of today
Without losing myself in thoughts of what was or what might be.
I will treat today with awareness and sensitivity
Even in the most ordinary of tasks.
I will apply myself wholeheartedly to the fullness of today
For I know that today holds the resource for authenticity.
-----------------------
The heart of the Buddha's teaching is very simple. It is liberation through non-clinging. We are often hardly aware of how much we cling to in daily life.
3. CLINGING

The mind clings to what it knows,
and it clings to what it doesn't know
oh, the mind,
feckless and reckless
unobservant of its own features
knowing not itself, nor otherwise,
clinging to its image, made of itself
clinging to its own pretentiousness
clinging to the extensions of a cloud filled day
clinging to trappings of associations

In the intolerance of unfulfilled dreams.
promises that torment the imagination
with a shattered life
splintered like broken glass
into countless reflections of clinging
distorting the sense of wholeness

Clinging to the thoughts,
improvement and prosperity
clinging to worse or better, wrong or right
sweet or bitter, yesterday or tomorrow
presence and absence, opened or unopened
unhelpful or helpful
and the fickle edges of inner movement

It is a strange thing that our potentially noble species
leaves unexamined the harassment of clinging
and the opportunity to live a gracious existence.

-------------------------
I talked with a person whose dreams for life had collapsed
and could not comprehend what had gone wrong. It was not easy for the person to see that the collapse of the dream meant a new opportunity.
4. A SHATTERED DREAM

Broken promises torment the imagination
through a shattered dream,
splintered like broken glass
into countless reflections of angst.

distorting the sense of wholeness
clinging to burdened thoughts,
clinging to faults,
clinging to blame, 
to bitter acrimony from yesterday into today,
unhelpful, unwanted and undeserved.

exposing collapsed centres of inner movement
unexamined defences to this impersonal harassment 
until the willingness comes to let things be
and beginner's mind taken to heart.

in our shattered dream,
we see the way to a new beginning.
-----------
We believe, as if it was true reality, that we have been born into this world, then we live and then we die. We give enormous significance to this puffed up view.
5. NOT BORN INTO THIS WORLD

I haven't been born into this world
with its razzmatazz and irrelevancy,
I haven't had to cross the stream to another shore
nor make of the self more than an empty abiding.
there's no respite for those that think that they
are more than what they are.

I haven't had to go through all of that
no, not even for a day.
the morning light and the slow drift of the cloud
across an empty space
announces the arrival and burial of the relevance of
a substantial life.

Mercifully, knowing of the never-been-born
suffocates the urges of the self
enabling weeds and slugs to grow 
enthusiastically along ornate pathways 
and manicured gardens.

Overlooking the song of daily existence
the self puffs itself up in strange moods
to confirm its own irrelevance.
truly, it's a funny old world.

6. BIG SPACES

Nothing is left for the heart
when it is focussed on particulars,
becoming adapted to their constructions
like a thing tied to a post,
with space in one's life
far away,
on the other side of such things.

The push of interest becomes the act of holding,
so big spaces only become shadows
and particulars create big shadows.

When the particulars lose
their particular importance
big spaces open up.
where will such spaces lead?

--------
It was midnight. I sitting in the small flower-filled garden of a monstery enjoying the warmth of summer's night. A beautiful woman came and sat on another seat – truly another flower added to this Garden of Eden.
7. A THING OF LIGHT

Her presence,
a beautiful thing of light
revealed as an inner journey,
where their night-time garden
formed of flowers
and her magical silence
formed the fragrance of a magical air

The moon showered its light
across this stillness,
while an unbroken listening
swallowed the midnight hours
amidst this mysterious oasis

She exposed her own power,
her inner beauty entered into a noble posture.
while the night hours radiated
her stillness that fills 
the wonder of a moment,
radiating a rapport with what is divine.

I often stay with a friend in Jaffa, the Arab town, in Israel. We go for a morning walk on the beach or sit quietly watching sky and earth. There is something spiritual about being on the beach. Sunbathers forget this.
8.THE BEACH

What shall I make of this enduring beach?
where the sun rubs into the lingering shoulder
the sand squirms in between the toes
and there's no answer to the this kaleidoscope
of elements without a source.

I shan't make anything of the irritants
exuding from the corners of
my meagre existence
for I have access to a gentle white-faced wave
that kisses a dampened shoreline.

Let me wallow here in my sunny irrelevancy,
on a single day, my body
lying prostrate, warmed in this naked light,
so that duties lie far-flung in other realms
while the sky acts as a solitary companion.

There is nothing to turn my back on
where sun, sand and sea reveal the final outpost
and the wind demands to be listened to,
reminding us all that heaven was not made in a day
but in the cancellation of the mind
and the baring of the body to the unnamed elements.
---------------------------------------------
While on a personal retreat at Gaia House, Devon, I would regularly go to the nearby woods at dawn and dusk for standing meditation. 
9. ABSENCE

I have my absence on this earth
manifesting as a transparent breeze
a body of insubstantiality that can only
pay respect to the field of sentient life.

I have stood silent among the trees 
in the twilight of a summer's evening 
until I have been forgotten in the midst of things

I have disappeared among the trees 
joining them in their silent aloneness
like a choir that makes no sound,

Creatures emerge - the fox, the badger, the squirrel, the deer!

They have nothing to take notice of
for I am not there so they can abide safely
in this surrounding space
that becomes my treasure in fading daylight.

I have removed even the pressure of my footprint
upon the earth as I become a companion of the trees
and silent witness to magical life.
-----------------


10. POOR IN SPIRIT

It is a strange thing this inner life,
that speaks of one thing
while revealing of another, 
a difficult thing to accept
saying one thing and conveying 
something else.

Yet, we feel what we feel
we think what we think
we say what we say
we do what we do.

Who can say whether the twain shall meet?

------------
In a former relationship, my partner and I had a different view of a situation. We were a little like ships passing in the night – waving to each other from afar. In the end, we hugged and begged to disagree.
11. STRANGERS TO EACH OTHER

I do not know what your experience is of a situation. 
you cannot know my experience of a situation 
I do not know what your experience is of me.
you cannot know my experience of you.
I do not know your experience of yourself.
you do not know my experience of myself.
Yet we still love each other.
---------------

12. THE BLESSINGS OF EMPTINESS

Let us see what substance, if any, our cherished views have 
Let us dare to know the emptiness of a position
Let us see whether we have the capacity to embrace effortlessly the swollen mind
realising the emptiness of notions of ownership, we find our true home
realising the emptiness of selfishness, we touch upon true wealth.

-------
During an intense inquiry with a person during a workshop in New York City, I kept coming back to the question of liberation here and now. The person was up for the challenge.
13. ARE YOU FREE?

Are you free to change? 
are you bound to daily cycles of enslavement 
are you tied to a cause or a position?
are you enslaved to ambition?
are you free to move on from being a well fed cog in the machine?
are you free to wake up daily without the layers of dissatisfaction running through your mind?
are you free to act unselfishly?
are you free to love much and want little?

Are you Free?

---------------
A Dharma teacher is the ongoing good friend
who is not trying to solve everybody's problems
but a presence, a steadying point and a possible catalyst for 
awareness and insight. 
14. UNSPOKEN ARRANGEMENTS

Who am I to change your painful perceptions
to calm your waves of sorrow
to dissolve your conventional certitude
into a mosaic of a different order?

What right is there to exude such words?
to blow away the dust in your open eyes?
from where comes the gesture to wipe
the tears hanging limply upon your tired cheeks?

What generates this shared meeting
with you and I in unspoken arrangements
that speak of that, not in time, not tangible?
where does this authority come from?
who shapes this configuration of sounds
we have made together in this meeting
where gentle words fall heavily upon this space.

What are these garments of words that hang in the air?
what makes me think I have much or little to say?
while experiencing this unwoven realm
where existence and non-existence seem irrelevant.

Let us stay together immersed in this moment
where an endless sky meets exposed consciousness,
and drops of rain share our meeting 
this unwoven realm
not insubstantial, not words, not silence.

-------
There is a naïve belief that we are in control of our life
and that we can choose to wait for something big to happen to us or we believe we can choose to build ourselves up into what we want to be.

15.THE POWER OF HERE AND NOW

You keep waiting for something
to blow your mind out of its complacency
a force, a lightning rod, a rocket launched
out of the depth of being
to embrace something profound
in the fabric of your cultivated existence.

Your existence is never your own,
not an event for you to remain in charge of
for in the startling depths of this moment
the great God abides who plunders your ego, 
and opens your life to a breathtaking presence.

You keep on meditating, that's all that you can do,
submitting to a fate greater than death,
and the shattering of illusions upon which
your life dwells with an embarrassing uncertainty.

The insubstantial self linger on the receiving 
end of cause-effect existence like a bottle 
bobbing up and down in the ocean of unrest.
do not imagine you can go anywhere with
your hopes, fears and dreams,
for they are all built on more of the same stuff

Your carefully cultivated existence is a myth
your existence is never your own,
not an event for you to remain in charge of
for the startling depths of the unknown
plunder your self satisfaction
and open your life to a breathtaking presence.

The truth strips away all
that you have imagined yourself to be.

-------------
Sustained mindfulness of breathing has the power to take us out of our conventional mind into other levels of consciousness that reveal a different reality and a different view of things.

16. THE BREATH

This breath slowly flows into the lungs,
the inhaling and exhaling of organic life.
drawing in the new day
and breathing out the redundant.

There is the expansion of this life form
as the air goes down into the depths of this being,
placing me closer to all that surrounds
and the swelling of attention
to a charged cellular existence.

I cannot hold this breath
as this great force of air
opens the lungs to maximum
until the throat is full.

There is vibration in this expanded life
until irrevocably, the lingering breath
gets inhaled back into the nature
from where it came.

There is nothing of I, of my, of myself
I am merely this plant that depends on air, light
and nourishment from a thousand gods.
I am this plant on the earth
that walks and responds to immediate events.

I have my roots deep into things, 
with my breath taking me to these roots
leaving behind the array of thoughts
that can confirm or distract me from my roots.

I thank the air element for its presence
to take me deep into my being.
for then I forget what I think I am,
and realise from what I emerge.
------------------------------
The Buddha shows his wisdom when he pinpoints desire
as the curse of human life. The West is attempting to water down this core teaching because it finds it too challenging.

17. SEIZING ON PARTICULARS

When this force of desire moves into the present,
I am blinded to its consequences,
to the slavery of its movement,
that makes no account of what abides
in receptivity around me.
I want what I want.

I go for what I want, 
I am told to go for what I want,
wielding this stick of desire
supported with weapons of knowledge and will.
I cannot hear the plea of the loved one,
the voice of the sorely forgotten.

Shaped prejudice colour my mind, 
that is exposing my desire, my self-ridden intentions,
but with the nursing of space that intention
takes its place, rises and falls, and
I am relieved of the consequences, that impulse 
that forces its way into other's lives.

This desire which sparks with inflammatory tones,
a calling for more; this blindness that takes
no account of mitigating circumstances, 
so forgetful of the way it stains the innocence 
of events, and the delicate upholding, 
where relationships and events are formed
in the zest of a myriad meetings.

I want what I want but I can't get it,
I push, I pull. I wield. I manipulate.
to no avail. the tide cannot be stopped from
receding from the shore. circumstances 
refuse to conform to my will, my undertakings, 
more of myself flounders 
in these underlying currents.
---------------------------------------
The Buddhist tradition encourages taking refuge in the Buddha, Dharma and Sangha. There is no refuge for those willing to let go at every level and here we find an immeasurable freedom.

18. NO REFUGE

I cannot take shelter under the autumn tree
for it reminds me, there is no refuge
since the colours of the day move on
as if forbidden to find a resting-place.

I hear the sound of distant voices 
and the barking of dogs that seem
like tiny snippets entering in this
silence that holds every leaf as it
gracefully makes it way to the ground.

there is a wind blowing across these woods
inviting the swirl of bronze leaves
and the reminder of this dying beauty;
this cycle of seasons stand incomprehensible
and to wander aimlessly through these woods
reveals the path of descending leaves.
-----------------------
We have become preoccupied, if not obsessed, with
thinking about the future – as if tomorrow's mind could be different from today's mind. We have 'made' a future as an escape from life.

19. FUTURE? WHAT FUTURE?

What is this future
that acts like a huge space?
into it, I throw my empty thoughts,
like a fisherman casting into a polluted sea.

I have escaped into my fantasies
they offer me tantalising riches
a possibility of becoming that 
what I am not.

I want to add clothes to my existence
dress myself up as being a somebody
with substance, role and identity
a way to conquer my anonymity.

What will I be?
how will I be?
when will I be?
these thoughts act like blood sucking ticks
burrowing their way into the recess of my mind
an irritation on an enduring life.

I have now stopped myself
in the track of these thoughts
that makes me poor and ineffective
I now have to admit to myself something;
the more I want to be, 
the less I am.

May this awareness lower the temperature,
let me treat this mind space
like a big black hole of wishful thinking.
so that I may stay in the present
taste whatever the moment has to offer
with no escape and no self-delusion.
perhaps then I will wake up.
for I know, the future has no future.


20. THE FINAL REST

In this immersion, 
an endless sky meets exposed consciousness,
and drops of rain share this meeting 
where all finds its rest 
in an unwoven realm, not beyond,
not hidden, not solid,
not insubstantial, not words, not silence.

-----------------
A brief comment on the self of the political leader
who urges war upon others.

21. THE SELF

This desirous self knows not what it wants,
pushing its weight around first in one direction,
then another, disregarding the cry of others,
a take-off into circulating orbits,
the space to blame becomes
the breeding ground for the heart's corruption
marshalling desire into a single force
to conquer others – much like one's own people.

--------------------------------------
The husband of a woman started an affair with another woman within a few months of getting married. The husband, a practicing Buddhist, told his wife that she was clinging to monogamy. For more than a year, she thought he might be right until she woke up.

22. THE MAN YOU MARRIED

The man you married never truly existed
The man in your heart hid you from
the man who lived in front of you.
You thought the inner was the outer,
that the man within was the outer man.
You lived and died in your error
torn to pieces in the imagined story of the heart.

You both announced your sacred vows to the gallery
of smiling loved ones, while he smiled
at them all with empty sincerity
and let his view kiss you.

You married your dream while he
whispered his love upon the soft breasts of 
another woman. 
You thought you could win him back
but you had never met him.
You ignored the road signs 
that led to the confrontation 
of the inner and outer.
The power of reality crushed your dream.

You who thought you lived your dream,
but you only lived your nightmare.
What is this meditation that takes no 
notice of reality?
What is this illusion that defies
the meeting of the inner and the outer?
You married your dream and blamed your non-dream.
You grieve for what you lost in the mirror.

Believing in the power of your connection,
you stayed hooked and you found out
what you never wanted to see,
oh, the narcissism of it all.

The sea has finally washed away your
carefully constructed sandcastles,
washed away the form of your identity
leaving only infinite grains of sand
along a scattered beach.

Love the Non-Dual!
------------------------
23.TO PEER DEEPLY

What is this present
that acts like a huge space?
into it, I throw my empty thoughts,
like a fisherman casting a net into an open sea.
I have now stopped myself
from an old way of being
that makes me ineffective

It's a funny old world
where we forget what matters -
until the surge of the wind that takes the limpness
out of a summer's apple trees
May I peer deeply into the living present
taste whatever the moment has to offer
with no escape and no self-delusion,
with no hope and no regret
knowing the only time that matters is when
the fruit leaves the tree.

24. A TRANSPARENT EXISTENCE

I have felt my absence
like a transparent breeze
I had to die, to be empty of 
any living gesture,
so that others can abide
without even the pressure of my handshake
upon their remarkable existence.
We believe we are evolving as a species but at what cost?

25. MYSELF

Myself appears no more than my desire,
in the supermarket of entangled choices,
I have not evolved out of the pursuance,
that defines me as the hunter-gather.
unhappiness haunts me like a cruel ghost,
for not to get what I want is to be unhappy.
this desire and this unhappiness link,
like a pair of thieves who rob
my heart of its treasures
and awareness of any vision.

I desire therefore I am is my signature tune,
solemnly out of tune with the rhythms of 
marinated existence and the inter-play 
of circumstances.
this force is marshalled up,
to imitate the go, go, go mentality,
this ideology of individualism,
of migraines and insomnia,
of tablets and alcohol.

But this self of desire is relentless,
approval seeking sustains its stature.
I desire in order to be somebody,
to be knighted by the approval of
others, of surrounding desirous selves.
but there are not enough slices of cake
to go around, not big enough slices,
to fill this hole within.
this hole shaped by desire. 

-------
The true nature of a person is available before thoughts arise, before the words are expressed to another. The truth is zero in its expression and zero makes all things possible.

26. UNSPEAKABLE INCLUSION

There is an unspeakable inclusion
that lies hidden
not so much within the words
but silently before them.
She had written down words,
words had also fallen from her lips
like dew drops on a summer's day
but what she had to declare
was not available
not even to herself,
nowhere in the sound of her voice.

Yet the unrevealed source is full of vitality
surging out of the hidden
while remaining utterly invisible
to a naked eye,
nor accessible to his sensitised ear.

He sensed the realm he could not
place a finger upon
of what she said
and what was hidden
so her words faded, evaporated, 
like the morning mist,
a distraction to what lay hidden,
deep, silent and mysterious.

Thus he knew the authentic message
hid itself in words, that the truth
of the matter is zero,
and everything that is said and written
never adds up, never amounts to anything.

Words act like a shimmering counterfeit,
arising and dissolving formations
exposed to momentary existence.
thus the truth reveals itself in non-expression,
in its emptiness, as an unqualified zero
masquerading as a conceptual expression.

Truth shows itself as an ennobling force
where words cannot go, nor words reveal.

I was sitting in the Dharma hall in the late hours. Guided by my torchlight, I walked slowly through the moonlit forest in the Australian bush to go to my hut. I was joined along the path by a woman, a rather enchanting and free-spirited soul. 

27. IN THE TEMPLE OF MOONBEAMS

The moon took a second glance
as her quiet footsteps
joined his meditative slowness,
as if one held the key
to the other's deepening endearment.

There was a stillness to the night
as if all sentient life gently held its breath
in their slow pilgrimage.
Walking in this temple of moonbeams
and graceful shadows
the man and the woman
fell into a deep silence
as if embraced by something Other
than their own intentions.

In this unspoken harmony
with only the occasional word 
of deep countenance
he knew the feint light of moonlight
enhanced her presence.

Isn't this unspeakable treasure
an emergence out of the indescribable
embrace of their silent existence?

What are these elements that unravel
from deep within to pervade 
their expanded consciousness
of an intimate world?

They both knew the moon acted as the only
witness to their footprints on this sandy trail.
He marvelled at the reciprocation
of their timely happenings and measured steps,
and the still night of the forest,
as she quietly walked on
and he fell back into his aloneness.

During a retreat in Bodh Gaya, India, a dedicated yogi said he could no find no point, no purpose to life. He had come to a rather despairing view that life was pointless. I told him it was an opportunity for him to celebrate this view, not reject it.

28. A POINTLESS LIFE

There is no point to life,
nor of itself,
for it knows not its direction,
where it is going,
nor where it has come from.
It cannot move from where it is,
yet it never stands still;
it is a strange thing,
this unfolding process
that neither stands still
nor goes anywhere
nor abides in random togetherness.

Yet, we who call ourselves humans
remain deluded in giving a point
to the pointless,
who sing a song of purpose
while playing second fiddle
in an orchestra
without a conductor.

There is no point to existence,
no purpose in abstracting something
to what cannot lead anywhere
nor abide where it is.

There is a relief to all of this,
for it dissolves the pressure 
to be here, to be someone
or to be somewhere else
that is not here.

There is no point in being here
and there is no point to being anywhere else.

No wonder there is only time to dance!

In my years as a monk in a rural Thai monastery, I spend countless hours in the classical Vipassana (Insight Meditation) tradition of slow, mindful walking up and down. Nothing to do. Nowhere to Go. I love this meditation as much today as the time when I was a young man. The poem is based upon one of his core teachings.

29. WALKING MEDITATION

Let me walk up and down slowly,
mindfully, step by step.
for life is a short step into the unknown
and it will take me there 
whether I like it or not.

Not surprisingly, I walk up and down
knowing there is nowhere to go,
not to come from.
for I know that one thing seems certain
I cannot go where I am already.
to imagine otherwise
means living in the rut of dark deception.

This walking meditation path runs to five metres
and it takes two and a half minutes 
to make this journey that truly leads nowhere.
It is truly remarkable to walk
up and down. for it offers nothing tangible,
nothing to show for the fruit of this effort.

There is no significant difference
between one step and the next.
it doesn't matter what direction I walk in
Whether from A to B or from B to A,
Going to and returning to, 
foot comes up, moves through the air,
touches the ground,
starting and finishing, 
not a step counts for anything,
not a movement counts for anything. 

It's rather liberating to see through the notions
of walking up and down, moment to moment.
quietly content, knowing that I have no reason
to do it and no reason not do it.

Meditation for the beginner and practitioner focuses on method, technique and form. For the season meditator, meditation reveals a different way of being that the 'self' cannot comprehend.

30. IMMENSITY 

Cross legged, back erect, eyes closed,
to this state of personal oblivion,
settled into this evaporated edge,
this intensity where the "body" is no more,
in this meltdown, sensations herald the formless,
refined, indistinct, an unglued expanse.
in an effortless immersion 

This immensity that vibrates through 
the home of 10,000 worlds,
this strange composure makes hollow the mind,
my enclosed self-world becoming an irrelevance.
until the chicken that has cracked its shell.
.
Unfixed, unformed unrecognizable
an emptiness makes all things possible,
the knower and the known bear no truth,
the worldly and spiritual loses its tone
when the knower no longer pushes forward
onto the fiction of the known.

Generalities and specifics, ideas and items,
march of names and forms, inconsequential items,
only the bang of thought can spark this objective world.
constructed via eyes, ears and names,
and the self's finite existence tied to an insubstantial shell. 
We live an unwrapped existence masquerading as limited.

The Buddhist tradition is very wordy. Texts and teachings morning, noon and night are available. Not surprisingly, this meditative tradition has cultivated a long standing love affair with silence to get beyond the mental construction of words and language.

31. SILENCE

This palpable silence, 
empty of itself and other,
pregnant with unclassified potential,
embracing a circulatory existence;

This silence that offers something
or nothing, via this meditation.
this timelessness featured as the dance
of past, present and future.

This silence that pervades waves of subtlety,
with sub-atomic particles breaking up,
with thoughts lighter than floating feathers,
no inner voice to whisper.

This silence that allows the whispers of the night,
the leaf to glide to the earth,
the spider to travel across its web
and the meditator to forget his whole existence.
-------------------------------

Religion, including Buddhism, has never felt comfortable with Eros, with the engagement with romantic mystery. With the support of Eros, there is a certain trust in a loving meeting that momentarily comes together and dissolves without regrets. 

32. AN EVENING POEM

He looked to her, for protection,
knowing that their days were young,
as her presence breathed
over his skin,
while her eyes steadily
peered through the window
of his soul.

Her green world acted
as silent witnesses
to a long-standing tradition;
happily they fell into a 
the deep embrace of 2500 years,
that gave shape to the sweetness 
of the moment.

Love and spontaneous gratitude
flowed in the air,
like two care-free butterflies
with colourful wings
and magical patterns.
meeting each other in the mystery of
blossoming plants and pink flowers.

They met in this space
and allowed themselves to freely pass on.

------------------------------
'Things' of time, whether past, present or future, cannot be determined independent of the mind that confirms. The belief that there is a past independent of the mind that perceives it and interprets is a great human fallacy.

33. NO PAST

I have fled from this moment
into something has gone by.
a moment of nostalgia,
a regret in the flush of passion.

I make these claims over
what happened to me
these impressions and storylines
arise as triumphs and regrets.
they show exposures of the self
in its agitated form.

Is the present the fruit of
yesterday and yesteryear?
Is what is the outcome of what was?
Can I really dwell on what was.
Can I go back in time?

I cannot separate my past 
from my impression of it.
What past is there to go back to?
I am left with this randomly selected 
collection of impressions
masquerading as what was.

Thee is no past to go back into 
leaving me nothing to face, 
to work on, work out or work with.
there is a relief in all of this.

i have seen through the mythology
of having to deal with this and that 
that i claim is my past coming
from the dredges of my unconscious
or with the sweet smell of my successes.

I do not have to be free from the past
I do not have to be infatuated with the past
There is no past that i can get to.
there is no past that can get to me
there is no past to be free from.

At last, I am no longer impressionable.

-----------
Some men and women find it hard to express love through language or may show hesitation to reveal any love thus keeping a distance. 

34. WORDS FROM THE LIPS

She is not used to love's language,
to letting such words
fall easily from her lips 
like raindrops hanging off
the leaves in an Indian monsoon.

No, she is not used to going beyond
the defined lines, and measured expression,
Not used to offer the risk of tender meaning.
She hesitates to let the heart
stand at the edge of the unknown
where feelings mingle with the breath
and risk gives shape
to something shapeless.

She wants to be loved from afar,
embraced from a safe distance,
so that time and space serve
as protective barriers that shields
her against an unexpected greeting.

Tangible weight of seriousness
still linger in regions of her soul.

Allow the Eros of the moment.

Fly freely into the moments of intimacy,
as if there was no hereafter.

I can see the night sky
lit up behind her in a sea 
of sparkling candles.

I was co-leading a Yatra (Pilgrimage) in the foothills of the French Pyrenees. I spent an hour engaged in standing meditation watching the dissolving of a large cloud.

35.THE CLOUD

Up there in front of me across the lake
hangs this cloud, large, bulging and fluffy,
detached from all the little clouds around,'
it is the mamma and pappa of the clouds
on this sunny aftrernoon.

Standing here with my toes
at the edge of this still lake,
my eyes look straight across
to this lovely bulge hanging in the sky.

What is it doing there?
i know it won't rain,
nor will it flee across the sky
not without the wind as its companion.

I stand here and look at it
to wait for it to dissolve,
to fade away from this concentrated perception
but it seems to refuse to.

My memory tells me one thing,
that it will dissolve into nothingness.
but my perception tells me that 
it is just hanging there
big and fluffy.

How did it end up there?
where did it come?
why isn't it changing?
it looks the same
just as when i arrived
let me place some concentration
into the perception running through my eyes.

Ah, this great cloud of the summer's afternoon
is changing, moment to moment,
very, very subtley around the edges.
phew it is almost imperceptible.

I have been standing here in this motionless state
for more than an hour now.
there is only the cloud and myself
with the forest, sky and lake as a backdrop
to the intimacy of our connection.

It still looks much the same
but perhaps not quite as imposing.
i am thirsty. i will say goodbye 
to the mamas and the papas of the clouds,

I know when i come back in due course
the cloud will be almost gone
a shadow of its former self in all its glory.
the sky will have absorbed it into itself.

I will go and drink a glass of water – delivered by 
courtesy of the cloud.

---------------------
Nagarjuna, the 2nd century Indian Buddhist monk/philosopher
leaves us with nothing to hold onto. There is a ruthless beauty to his teachings that dissolve the standpoints of the theists, agnostics and atheists with breathtaking clarity. This poem honours one of his teachings.

36. HOMAGE TO NAGARJUNA

Who is walking? 
is the walker separate from the walking? 
is there one activity going on?
namely just walking 
or are there two activities – walking and walker? 

If there are two, 
do they collide with each other or stay apart? 
if there is only walking
then who says it is walking?

Does the walker walk or not walk? 
can the walker go anywhere? 
since the walker is not the walk
then is the walker left behind?

Does the walker start before the walking 
or start when the foot first moves? 
at what point does standing become walking? 

Can you find the beginning of walking? 
can you find the beginning of the walker?
if you cannot find the moment that begins walking
then is it appropriate to refer to 'walking?'

I believe I know that when i walk 
I see the body is moving. 
Am I also moving? 

Does walking depend upon the
walker to take place?
If the walker is not walking
what has happened to the walker?

------------------------------------
37. DAILY MEDITATION

Let us be still for a few moments
Without moving even our little finger
So that a hush descends upon us.
There would be no place to go, 
Nor to come from,
For we would have arrived in this extraordinary moment
There would be a stillness and silence,
That would fill all of our senses, 
Where all things would find their rest.
Everything would then be together in a deep connection.
Putting an end to 'us and them', this against that.
We would not move in these brief moments
For that would disturb this palpable presence;
There would be nothing to be said nor done
For life would embrace us in this wondrous meeting
And take us into its arms as a loving friend.

38. PRAYER OF THE HEART

Let us keep our heart focused
Let me find kindness to negate resentment
Let me show generosity to dissolve possessiveness
Let me stand steady in the face of pain rather than live in fear
Let me experience co-operation rather than revenge
Let me be free from clinging and a narrow mind
Let me express compassion rather than indifference 
So that my heart connects with the realities of others 
So that I stay true to an undying principle 
Of treating others as I wish to be treated.
So awareness and respect pervade 
My thoughts, words and actions.
To live in such a way brings dignity and nobility to life
And reveals true freedom of being.
----------------
Etty Hillesum, a 27 year old Jewish woman, embodied the liberated spirit despite
living under the Fascist jackboot in Holland. In the past 15 years, I have read her diary, translated into English, several times. She communicates the power of a transcendent intimacy with daily life. She died in a concentrate camp in Poland. I visited her flat in Amsterdam. And wrote this poem afterwards.

39. A POEM TO ETTY HILLESUM

I sat in that cafe off
with a coffee and a thought
amidst the downpour of the September rain
and the weekday rush of humanity,
huddling in doorways in Amsterdam,
amidst raincoats and umbrellas.

I drifted back more than half a century,
to passionate Etty, 27, Jewish, diarist,
hurrying home dodging the jackboots
of an occupying army in 1942-43
- an invasion into the hearts, minds and bodies
of ordinary people trying to live ordinary lives..

Then, suddenly, I was pulled back into the present
to the rain, to the umbrellas and the hurrying commuters.
when out of the cafe's radio came a soprano singing.
Con Te Partino.
it was sung as an angel sings to my soul.
tears came out of my eyes]
like sweet raindrops
a response to the wonder of it all.

I felt the presence of Etty
she was as close as the breath to the body.
and as the song came to its close
it stopped raining.
people no longer hurried in their freedom. 
the jackboot was confined to the dustbin of history
while what remained was the spirit 
of a triumphant young woman
who sang on her farewell journey to Poland. 


I cannot recall waking up in the morning feeling burdened, sad or thinking that I have so much to do today. Deep sleep shakes off all of yesterday allowing for the wonder of the new day. This is a poem of celebration of the new day.

40. WAKE UP!

Wake up! this extraordinary morning
ever fresh, while a stranger to myself
I have been born again into this mystery.
I am enveloped in this aurora of existence.

I am alive! I am happy!
not a creature of time and tasks
an innocent abroad in this mystical land,
I have woken up! the mystery has pulled me
into its wakefulness.
this sky! this world! this unformed tour de force!
I arise into your embrace; this immensity.

Wake up! this morning
let the eyelids flicker upon this silent sound,
while Vishnu rests in this milky world.
this darkness travels afar,
while this new day 
searching my eyelids
giving shape to this strange world

I have been born anew
in this innocence of my old existence
I cannot explain this happiness
that envelopes me
in this newness. 

41. THAT SPOKE OF ETERNAL THINGS

We had looked into each other's eyes,
long seconds that spoke of eternal things
there was a quietness in those moments
as though the rest of the world
had receded from the edge of time.

It was a meditative attention for each other
where to speak would be to disturb this 
blessing, this potent silence
where our mutual fondness stretched across
our shared space uniting us into one world
and into a seamless joy.
------------

To live is to love. At times, out of love for another, we have to take risks.

42. DANGEROUS LOVE

Never stand back
from the risk of melting 
into the arms of dangerous love,
that's without cost to another
or the anguish of others.
The diver cannot hold back
from the plunge into the icy waters
nor the meditator resists sinking
into the depths of his far away being,
nor the singer prevent herself from 
throwing herself into the song
that echoes across emptiness.

What does that feel like
to be so forgetful that your inside
shakes with quivering excitement
when the first embrace blows away
all your kaleidoscope of hope and fears?

With our wild and precious life,
we put an end to our silent and secretive desires,
the vine and tree wrap themselves tightly
in a hug unto death, two become one
knowing there is no return to safety.

Our whole lives are made
to be forgotten
so that the bee loses itself
in the womb of the flower
and the moon loses its face in
the stillness of the lake,
while paying respect to the web
of unshakeable connection.

We can only breathe
our being into each other
as the lips open 
to the upsurge of animal joy.
and your fingers write their message
over our submission.

All that we can offer is our emptiness 
to dissolve ourselves upon.
------------------------------------
It is an extraordinary thing to make a commitment to serve others. Men and women who steadfastly serve others are the gods and goddesses of the Earth.
They are the rocks of the Earth upon whom we can trust. The poem was written after a dedicated meditator took a solemn commitment to serve others.

43. THE ROCK

Stretch out your arms
so you can wrap them around Mother Earth
and hug her into your emptiness.

The miracle of today lies in the formless
that reveals tomorrow
where your being faces your inner life
without turning your back on the world.

The wind sweeps through your existence
as the sun descends upon the rock,
and the chorus of children's voices
call you to the future.

You have taken refuge in this commitment
so that nothing remains, not even the ashes
of your past.
Submit to this new birth,
knowing that your first steps are everlasting.

In this inseparable vision,
you have taken the hammer to the old walls
leaving yourself open to the elements,
so that you can kiss life.

If you stay awake, there will only be the 
whispers of eloquence, the emergence of connection,
as you sit near and listen to the needs of others,
to the joy and torment of an unfixed world.

You are the song of the nightingale
who offers its hymn to those in far-off places.
----------

There is a profound middle ground between ordinary friendship and a sexual relationship that deserves exploration. It is the meeting of Eros between any two roles. Both show respect and commitment for each other, and offer the other love and support - without crossing boundaries to cause distress anywhere, and without expectation of continuity. 

44. THE POWER OF EROS

Are we making love without our bodies?
Are we renouncing the fixed form
for the indefinable?
Is this what we share?
It seems so deep that it cannot make sense,
even to ourselves.

What is this middle way that belongs 
neither to passive friendship,
nor active passion
but a spiritual sensuality
that reveals a sacred centre?

We cannot construct form
out of this formless dimension,
only let our hearts run with the wind,
until we land in the field,
far away from all that we've known before.

Your presence impacts upon
my meagre existence,
even though your hands abide in hesitation.
You leave me to wonder what this dance is all about.

Your power shows itself
in small offerings that dissolve
in the very moment you give.
You have come and gone
like a spec of stardust
that blinked in the night.

Only a heartbeat is left behind.
I could not ask for more than that.
-----------
A deep connection with another person can serve as a vehicle to transform our lives if we are ready to listen and let go.

45.WRITTEN ACROSS ETERNITY

These poems are merely scribbles
written across eternity.
Words that touch upon love and death
and her beauty hiding in the further
reaches of the galaxy.

She has thrown away my past,
of decades of rampant files
and a cluttered existence.
She stripped my externals
down to the essentials,
opened new spaces where
nature's urges awaken the cells.

I have supported her exit
from the triangle of yesterday
into the tremors of today
leaving nothing but her naked existence
to endure the elements.

We cannot truly touch each other's solitude
for when we do
it will invite long breaths
into the deep recesses of our moistened cells
where loves long standing voice
echoes throughout eternity. 

We easily find ourselves in the grip of the voices of family, friends as well as our conditioned reactions from the past. These judgemental and demanding voices easily paralyse us.

46. WHO WILL YOU LISTEN TO?

Who will you listen to when the voices
swirl all around you;
that always think they know what is best
for you,
as though you can fix your security
upon the plaintiff 
whim of others.

These voices will never encourage
you to walk your own path,
to make your acts of crazy wisdom,
and to find out what matters
through expressions of
rebelliousness foolishness.

The wind that sways
through the summer fields
the song of the skylark
hovering in the afternoon sky
and the gallop of the horse
across green pastures
- listen here and 
to the cry of the crestfallen,
and the voice of freedom
somewhere deep down in your being.

Catch the wind that reminds you of
your liberation from the doldrums
of a formed life,
catch the song that refuses to submit
to the land of the living dead.

Throw off your wish to please that 
clamour of appeals that keep telling you 
to imitate them, and their confined existence.

Let yourself enter deeper and deeper into
the new and the unknown
until these wearisome voices have
become the faintest of echoes
from another lifetime.

It is not easy facing the end of a relationship, especially if the signals were ignored.

47. ONCE SOMETHING HAS HAPPENED

The fruits of past endeavours hang on the branch
until they have exhausted themselves 
in their own weight

Once something has happened, it signals
that it is all over, the green light, 
has turned to red
so that the continuity of the flow
has ground to a halt.

Once something has broken, has snapped
then the unfolding connection
has fallen apart with no pieces to pick up
so that everything has changed, altered
unrecognisably so.

What was once redeemable
through the reheatable furnace of the heart
has become irredeemable.
Once the love, that spark that lit the fire
has gone out, then the nostalgic memory
becomes an irrelevancy.

The inner voice clamours to comprehend
this dissolution of a long standing embrace,
while facing resistance to the emptiness
that carries nothing of the old.

What has finally happened
ought never to have happened
yet the outcome is the inevitable consequence
of what was revealed and unrevealed 
in the pathways of the past.

This sudden announcement of closure
with its shock, or at least surprise
confirms the missed signals -
overlooking the spoken and the unspoken
along the rough and hewed out track.

The deepest love carries within its embrace
the unredeemable and that is all 
that is to be remembered and reveals
a strong shadow in bright sunlight.

We can never take each other for granted.
----------------
48. DEATH OF A FLOWER

The snow fell down on the earth,
unexpectedly
burying the exquisite flower
in its state of vulnerability
a thing of newness, freshness
cut off from its potential
to bloom, to be a thing of beauty
suffocated in a heavy footstep
of a winter's episode
leaving a strangeness in the air
of missed colours and dancing petals
having gone to ground
withered away in the cold light
and the dark chill of crisis
with the freezing blanket of ice
and its attendant consequence

In spite of this moment
seemingly stuck in the passage
of crushed events
leaving only barren trees as a witness
to the dissolution of this fragile flower,
spring comes!

-----------------
I have been offering annual Dharma teachings in Bodh Gaya since 1975. One of the beggars I have known throughout this time. She is dumb, sleeps under a table at night, and still smiles when we meet.

49. THE BEGGAR OF BODH GAYA

Gnarled life huddled in its destitute form,
with tired hand outstretched at entrance,
a fading appeal of disappearing light.
while humanity strolls though these iron gates.

A temple glorifies the religion
an endorsement to step over the living dead.
barely a glance at her near forgotten presence.
unbefriended soul of the streets and paving stones,
her call, her cry and repeated pleas, 
unable to find its way to the pockets of pilgrims.

Ragged cloth, uncombed hair, and cold feet,
gripped to the earth's suffering history.
her pleading eye raised to the powerful might
of indifferent visitors,
who shrug and stare ahead, 
a quickening of the march past, 
through the gates into the temple designed to 
detach the observer from poverty's pulse.

---------------------

50. THE CLIFFS OF MAYA

The pounding roar of the Atlantic burst
furiously into the face of the cliffs,
again and again. 
Relentlessly.
While the storm clouds weighed heavily
in the swirling chill of a dark winter's afternoon.

Here heaven and hell met each other
locked in the wonder and terror of it all
ocean and cliff battling for supremacy
like two titans of the earth for whom
there is no victory or defeat,
only the thrill of the warring clash.

We had stood there huddled
together amidst gale force winds
that tore through our struggling figures
pushed and pulled us around
while the pounding waves crashed into the cliffs.

The two of us,
of little consequence,
playthings of the wind
two tiny things huddled together
as if we could not survive separation.

We had stood apart 
and her outstretched arms trailed,
like the wings of a hovering seagull,
across the mighty sea and the cliffs
We thrilled to the power,
to the terror, to the rage of the
ocean pounding again and again
against the unbending authority 
of the upright cliffs.

We left mindfully, appreciatively
made humble by their visit to this
awesome cathedral of existence
with a reminder to live
as playthings of the wind.
-----------

In the Buddhist tradition, there is the sacred concept of kalyana mitta (good friend). The good friend is a visit from Sophia whose loving presence helps to keep the heart and mind clear and non-reactive. We all need such friends.

51. The Visitor

She helped me live my life
in another circle, that bore no reference point
i had felt her presence under my cells,
and her kindness permeating my story.

i had invited her into my being
without reference to her history,
so she acted as a figure of presence, 
a pillar of support in the tremors around. 

She had come out of her tunnel 
and embraced me as if we were long lost lovers
even now, after all of this, i found myself 
abiding like a swan, full of plummage 
appreciating her loving manner. 

Where will this winding river take us?

52. A River of Tears

She told me she cried when she read my letter
that my words had landed in her tenderest place.
i told her that the number of tears shed in this world
would fill the great ocean.
her life had become heavy with this inner struggle
to feel understood in a world that cannot be understood,
she had wanted to be an
exception to this world
that knows no exceptions,
so her rivers of tears made their way
to join the ocean. i cannot offer her lasting security
only make available a small life jacket
in this unsettled ocean
and the warmth of an outstretched hand.