When embraced nature
Gives the lie to solitude
Rather grants solace
It’s not just out there that there’s weather
There’s changeable weather here inside too
Heard tell they’re one and the same anyway
Beneath this sogenannten inside/outside slop
In which case all bets’re off or else ill judged
N this moment’s snap’s not the last’s or next’s
N any original thought’s worth no more than
What pads out a thousand mindless quotings
Your thoughts and feelings?
Nothing but a tar baby.
Hands off! They’re not yours.
Morning precedes the unknown
Just so with mourning
Coming and going
Without going anywhere
Time an illusion
Space likewise passing the time
Our home is not made by hand
Not The Real Thing
NOT THE REAL THING
Fearful egoistical manifestation
Engenders armorial inflation
Leads to superfluous titivation
Over time astute observation
Advises timely disintegration
For eventual emancipation
Does a pen know what words to use?
Surely it is only the wielder of the pen.
And does a writer know what tale to tell?
This wielding business when examined
Surely begs a few questions of its own.
ONE TWO THREE
First there is no meaning, then there is, then there is no need.
Content or else left discontented.
Full of content or else empty; open to
A blossoming in contentedness.
Void and avoid after all cousins;
It’s all about words and worlds
give or take a letter or two.
“You should stop words and letters,”
Says Dogen, “and learn to withdraw
and reflect on yourself.
“When you do so
your body and mind will naturally fall away,
and your original Buddha nature will appear.”