Not So Empty

Emptiness is form; nothing has nothing in it, like air in a jar. Saying the jar owns that air is a foolish way to think.

Form is emptiness; nothing has something to it that is not alone. Thinking one jar’s empty space stops at its rim is silly.

16 JUN 2024

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Seasoning

Time knows no season; Spring doesn’t turn to Summer in just one moment. The now is all that exists. You cannot measure its span.

Life did not begin; it is always here and now. It is infinite. Before you take the next breath, let your lungs taste it. 

13 JUN 2024

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Shikantaza

Who is just sitting?
It is not me, or is it,
here on the cushion.
Who is asking the question?
Nobody really knows that.

13 JUN 2024

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This Moment of Now

In a moment’s span
life expands to fill the void;
a flower blooming
is a gentle breath of air:
earth and sky come together.

04 JUN 2024

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Thisness

I think, therefore I am not being.
When I am, I don’t need to think about it;
How does a raindrop perceive itself,
either forming in the cloud,
dripping down the sky,
or disappearing in the ocean?

It is only wet.
There is no deep dive required.

30 APR 2024

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Sprung

Just when the flesh is willing, then the spirit becomes weak:
our words bubble up easier, but they’re harder to speak.
So often, much less useful when determining one’s fate,
and many times, just wasted, once the hour becomes late. Then when the spirit’s willing, the flesh can tend to fail:
there’s steam to blow the whistle, but rust built up on the rails.
The reflex meant for rolling gets caught up, its aging gears
left toothless and un-oiled, neglected for so many years.We spend our spirit carelessly in worship of the flesh:
admiring how a thing performs based solely on its dress,
and burning out our bodies chasing bright and shining mist;
extravagantly wasting wealth on what doesn’t exist. And when the flesh is worn and old, we try to lay the blame
on time and chance, forgiving of the player, not the game.
Then spirit tries to rally, but the best that it can do
is play the sad curmudgeon for a last season or two. 24 APR 2023

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15 AUG 22

What is our conversation now,
in this new world of self
where all our time and energy
just builds a cluttered shelf
for trophies that we give ourselves
and prizes we amass
to demonstrate a sense of worth?
It seems a little crass
to focus our attention in
so tight a frame and sphere,
while worrying our waking hours
that we might disappear
without that click-and-clack applause
from friends who use our name
to sell their own inventions,
in a never-ending game
of who said what and when to whom
and why should someone care.
We all pontificate and cast
our notions on the air,
expecting a contagious wind
to drop them here and there,
in pockets of sunlight and shade
where they will die, or grow;
and give us more to talk about,
or nothing. I don’t know.

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