They smell funny, sometimes.
They poop and piss and sometimes pick their noses.
They don't -- above all -- have all of the answers.
They have many of the questions.
Mystics cry, and they sob, and they laugh -- just like
"non-mystics". What makes a mystic extraordinary
is only this: We know, if only in part, that
Last edited by River; 06-19-2011 at 12:46 AM.
this is enough
taking the tea pot down from the shelf
noticing--being!--the way the feet move
as the agile body turns toward the kettle
and how the socked feet kiss the cool
wooden floor and linoleum
and then the pouring
of the bubbling water
and filling of the tea ball diffuser
did i want tea?
was i headed somewhere?
Don't say I love you.
(a practice poem)
Say "I am loving you," instead.
And as you say "I am loving you" ask yourself,
silently to yourself, "is this true? Is this real?"
Love is the verb, "to be." Are you being, love, now?
Love is that which is.
Ask yourself, "am I?".
Darling friend, whomever you are,
This one is from Kabir.
I Said To The Wanting-Creature Inside Me
I said to the wanting-creature inside me:
What is this river you want to cross?
There are no travelers on the river-road, and no road.
Do you see anyone moving about on that bank, or resting?
There is no river at all, and no boat, and no boatman.
There is no tow rope either, and no one to pull it.
There is no ground, no sky, no time, no bank, no ford!
And there is no body, and no mind!
Do you believe there is some place that will make the soul
In that great absence you will find nothing.
Be strong then, and enter into your own body;
there you have a solid place for your feet.
Think about it carefully!
Don’t go off somewhere else!
Kabir says this: just throw away all thoughts of
and stand firm in that which you are.
... and now another of my own ...
What a chore and a bore
mindfulness seemed! Washing the dishes mindfully
in order that one day I can win the prize!
-- Gawd I hated washing dishes! --
There must be a pot at the end of the rainbow, somewhere!
Surely this cannot be it!
Yet--just moments ago--turning the lid on the saki bottle
to close it!
In the most secret place of my heart
I've always known
Life is a poem
Poesis, in Greek
And, too, I've known
Life is but a dance
To move freely
And, too, I have known
That the dancer and the dance
Call this the Tao
Call it the instinctive movement
Of the thirsty toward water
Please call it love!
Call it joy
Call it wonder
We who dance
Are danced and sung
We who breathe are breathed
This I've always known
In the secret place of my heart
To love is letting go
To dance is letting go
Poems assemble on the page
Because life is a tender Mystery
With depths of secret
Which know themselves
Only in dancing --
In letting go
Last edited by River; 06-23-2011 at 11:04 PM.
There are no images in this poem
No dark basements
No revolving or swinging doors
No glass ceilings
Nothing that's mine or yours
There are no earthquakes
Or lapis lazuli
And the spiritual peacock
Hides not his feathers in shame
No hot or cold weather
No masks and no games
There is no seeking
No poetry in this poem
Here distances have dissolved
Along with journeys
Apples and gardens
Along with origins
Even Creation is nowhere to be found
There is no Buddha here
Not even the Tao
Nor even suchness
No metaphor is to be found
No rivers and no osprey
Or frogs that go plop!
No turning within
Nor turning away
No sorrows or joys
No children at play
There's no emptiness in this poem
Not a single kiss is here
Nor you and I
And no embrace
No emblems and no flags
No countries and no races
Nothing is in this poem
Not a damn thing