When a lute is played, there is no previous store of playing that it comes from. When the music stops, it does not go anywhere else. It came into existence by way of the structure of the lute and the playing of the performer. When the playing ceases, the music goes out of existence.
In the same way all the components of being, both material and non-material come into existence, play their part and pass away.
That which we call a person is the bringing together of components and their actions with each other. It is impossible to find a permanent self there. And, yet there is a paradox. For there is a path to follow and there is walking to be done, and yet there is no walker. There are actions but there is no actor. The air moves but there is no wind. The idea of a specific self is a mistake. Existence is both clarity and emptiness.
She comes from to time.
Asking me, ‘what is it you hope to find?’
You suit up everyday assuming nothing will get in the way.
Course, I always ask, again, ‘what is it that you say?’
She turns a perfect mane from…
my constant journey.
A woman’s nursery rhyme,
daily quaff of the physique.
When I look into those big green eyes…
picturing her swagger and smirk.
My vain attempts at spirituality.
‘Tis the humans conditioned response to reality.
I know what will go unsaid with her delicate nature.
Her effortless calm.
The lack of drama.
This and much more resists human karma.
Amen to Cat nation.
Beyond the dirty snow. The deep bleak array of brown on tan. Deep in the thick of it. There can be complete
un-attachment. Course, that is a late winter’s day in rural New Hampshire.
Look into any eyes
you find by you, you can see
clear through to another day
I know it’s been seen before
through other eyes on other days
Often, when the winter lingers on, I am amazed at the little things. For at this stage in the game…’it is the little gestures that mean the most.’
Awed…at the fact, a leaf has hung on through gallant winds. Clumps of snow have managed to survive bouts of winter heatwaves. These along with other surreal visions, have provided me with hope. Contemplation in the everybody, somebody, me, wanting a revolution. In history, present day, the future, there will always be a hanger-on.
I feel the sweat,
taste my siblings veiled tears.
From Radio Flyer to Barbie’s plight,
revolutions provide the fire,
a rescue in mutiny,
rosary for the daydream believers.
Somewhere plans for somebody.
Someday, someway, a lone leaf
hanging from a winter’s birch.
anomalies in the snow.
peace from a frozen river’s flow.
Doesn’t have a point of view
Knows not where he’s going to
Isn’t he a bit like you and me?