Beauty is in the Technique

Too lazy to be ambitious, I let the world take care of itself. Ten days’ worth of rice in my bag; a bundle of twigs by the fireplace. Why chatter about delusion and enlightenment? Listening to the night rain on my roof, I sit comfortably, with both legs stretched out! -Ryokan

Sleepy Eye’d Possum

Wake me from this revolting riddle

My island…tartan from the toil

Every moment in slumber…I am submerged on faraway soil

Outings of yesteryear, swirl and wane from folly’s foil

Though I stack cords of oak to guard against my enemies

I fear tomorrow it will topple and the pond shall boil

Had I not known Friendly Strangers when young.

My reduced everything would have remained under constraint of younger guns

Now, only another Castaway…

Friendly Stranger wake me with your beat…

a distant and different kind of drum

Common Considerate Behavior

salamander

What if the whole world just held hands?
United as one 
Those who opposed, fell off
Disintegrated into the sun
The only thing left of evil was ash 
The only thing left on earth was people with passion
Heart for Mother Nature
Caring for their fellow human being
Common considerate behavior 
Contribution towards humane higher plane of consciousness

  • Andrew Edward Lucier

Sense and Susceptibility

 

 

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We are all tempted by a grand design…

Something of an imaginary kind…

Incense so zealous…yet, not ours to find.

A pungent temptress.

An oak’s sweetness…

A nutmeg sheltered in bitterness.

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After the hibernation, when frolic peppers the air.

It is there.

It is there.

the Garden of the Prophet

Pity the nation that is full of beliefs and empty of religion. 
Pity the nation that wears a cloth it does not weave 
and eats a bread it does not harvest. 

Pity the nation that acclaims the bully as hero, 
and that deems the glittering conqueror bountiful. 

Pity a nation that despises a passion in its dream, 
yet submits in its awakening. 
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Pity the nation that raises not its voice 
save when it walks in a funeral, 
boasts not except among its ruins, 
and will rebel not save when its neck is laid 
between the sword and the block. 

Pity the nation whose statesman is a fox, 
whose philosopher is a juggler, 
and whose art is the art of patching and mimicking 

Pity the nation that welcomes its new ruler with trumpeting, 
and farewells him with hooting, 
only to welcome another with trumpeting again. 

Pity the nation whose sages are dumb with years 
and whose strongmen are yet in the cradle. 

Pity the nation divided into fragments, 
each fragment deeming itself a nation.

Gibran, the Garden of the Prophet