Fruit of Being Poem

Fruit of Being

I never dreamt I'd lose myself and find the whole world

though I searched a thousand basket stands for the

ripest fruits

each time, empty hands.

I'd been told about the sweet nectar of true surrender,

of a cup full of emptiness, 

but I'd not tasted it's draught

til now.

What do you eat when you're satisfied ?

What do you drink when your sated? 

I know not how to be in this world

but I am no longer frightened 

fulfilled,

I am.

 Haiku Recipe

I slowly wake up

and begin to see clearly

how to be today

--

With a lions roar

felt like a gentle whisper

we are all uncaged

--

Johnny Appleseeds

sprinkling truths into the air.

Somewhere sprouts will grow

--

Intent is the fuel

surrendered to emptiness

we stir the soupot 

--

First this way then that

Tasting to make sure its good

Now, ready to eat

 Haiku Forms

That which moves me now

is quiet, small and mighty

does it move you too?

--

I am the ocean

my waves crash on shorelines

my spray foams the air

--

 Prison or Palace

Would you have this place be a cell

 caged and trapped against our will

Husks pacing our 20 x 20  pen,

running the ruts of our wheels in the floor, or

would you have it be a palace,

food served on platters of plastic

with attendees serving our every need, 

or a retreat center, a sanctuary from a dizzying world.

Maybe a classroom where each day teachers gift us to learn

new skills and lessons to live in a tough world.

Beware the ossification of roles, who exactly is the teacher

and who is the taught. 

We all have gifts to share.

Perhaps it is simply a community of burgeoning friendships and relationships 

which like azaleas are blossoming in their own time. 

All here to help each other grow, become their colorful, fragrant selves.

We have no true task besides getting well here in this hospital. 

We are all here to heal the primary division 

and see things as they truly are 

prison or palace. 

 Fracture

It can all break.

None of us is so solid we won't fracture. 

Each has their shatter point

the point beyond which, we snap.

but do not fear.

always there is a part beyond breaking

I ask, how much emptiness lies between the stars

how much space is even between the smallest particles

Science says relative miles separate the nucleus from electrons.

There is always more space, nothingness, than solidity.

Try breaking emptiness.

Connect with space and be not distracted by the objects

For it is not a nihilistic emptiness

It is the emptiness of potential, pure kineticism

the power of birth and death and all that's in between, 

an active nothingness, a cradle of love and compassion.

This space is our home, birthright, universe.

We are but stardust rearranged again and again

and that is beautiful.

Fear not the fissures, the fractures 

for this is where the light shines through,

and we are light.

Mirror Images

I stare at the flouorescent screen willing away the pain

It remains.

Sometimes in the foreground.  And in the background too, sometimes,

but present,

like an achy back that asserts itself when you reach too far for the light.

I do not say this casually;

I know too easily how words are misconstrued and

having spent a lifetime constructing a self out of false idols of what sacrifice truly meant, I understand its currency.

But I would take up the burden of your pain and carry it if I could

If indeed, it could ease your torment.  But I know it cannot.

I am not one of those parents who seeks to shield you from hurt.

With careful attention, pain can be a crucible capable of forging the sturdiest and most loving of individuals.

I would not rob you of those lessons.

But suffering is not the only path to empathy and compassion.

And joy always dwells much deeper than the circumstances that commonly appear to birth it.

Nor does wisdom need to be wrought through tragedy.

Sometimes pain just kills.

When did you look in the mirror and fail to see

the cherub who renounced his birthday gifts to charity

or defied his teacher to stand up for his crying friend

or deftly puzzled a thousand lego bricks into flying galactic starships

or sprinkled wisdom seeds wantonly about the things that matter?

or who courageously owned the colors of himself before the world.

What chicanery hides your own beautiful countenance, obvious to others

From you, who hold that face?

and what spellcraft warps the inner light that shines from you?

Powerful must be the illusion to obscure such infinite worth, radiance and depth

from its source

a proximity too near to measure.

But such is not how it works. No sacrifice mollifies. No substitutions allowed.

So instead, I will wish for you my son, the sight my father once wished for me;

to see myself as he saw me

with the beauty, strength, love, wisdom and intelligence

capable of remaking the whole world.

A Little Butterfly's Lullaby

Little butterfly with your slit wing do you believe you cannot fly?

Is the flight you seek -- the very nature of your being -- elusive in a sorrowful way?

Even before your chrysalis, flight was yours.

Here, now, lie pink lilies extending their nectar in the fields around you.

Tulips open wide and vulnerable, pressing towards the nourishing yellow rays of the sun and craning their thin necks.

Neither strains to be its full potential.

Just arising in this colorful, delicate, sweetness.

When the dawn breaks and mauve clouds mottle the morning sky, in an explosion of fiery hues,

And heaven kisses the gentle earth, its mate, good morning,

though they have been alone in their separation through the night they embrace their suffering for

even as the architect calls forth the artistry from the stone and space, it was never apart from the pure

potential from which it was birthed.

Ultimately what is not heard, seen, touched or conjured 

by a moving mind is inherently present, always.

And that divinity levels all, from the mightiest empires to the most ephemeral fragrance.

It is that which is most precious of all.

I would have you see yourself as you truly are, floating in breezy currents. 

Seeped in glorious mystery.

Alighting on the invisible eddies of wind  

Surrendered like a flame which worries not about its particular

form the next moment.  

For a flame can be nothing but fire and light.

Your wing is clipped not when a gash tears your folds.

Hurt though it may,

And you were no less beautiful as a caterpillar.

It is only when you close your mind to your own brilliant, infinite radiance.

That you cannot flutter