If only I could write,
myself out of this poem,
it might ring true

serenity in being,
the simplest thing,
the nothing at our core:
the wellspring of our lore.

no tale of transcendence,
no precious awakening,
just a homage to our soul,
empty and serene

I hear the doorbell,
it calls me home,

I taste the tea,
I hear her voice,
I smell the fire,

I breathe the light,
through the crack in the curtain.

I hear the doorbell,
I must be home.

and I rejoice that we played this game,
of hide and seek,

for the storm,
it was a shower.

the fire,
it was a heater.

the pain,
it was a lover.

and my freedom,
was the sound,
of a doorbell…

from within my home

it’s okay to put the world aside,
now and then,
to remember your place,
in the garden,
never once exiled,
never once leaving home

everything being of one substance,
which is no-substance,
and seeing that every speck of dust,
is floating space,
what can we hold onto?

tell me, is there a story within you?
what does it say, about what you ought to be?
do you remember tearing those pages out of a book somewhere?
when did they turn to stone,
and become so heavy?
well, it’s good fortune then,
that you’re unable to carry…
anything at all

do we really need to prove anything at all?
come home, my dear,
there’s no shame in the simple,
the wilderness is right here

with this cage of ribs,
with this narrow mind,
with these churning thoughts,
a sharp sword through a gentle stream— 
I pretend to cut the ocean, 
I pretend to imprison the heart 

when tomorrow,
has my heart,
today,
is a sorrow away

there is a stillness inside, 
where an earthquake could not, 
shake the edges of my smile

look back and it’s gone,
look forward and you’ve become an actor,
look straight ahead and assume a posture that is serenely available,
truth is total abandon to what must be,
it is courage itself,
for what is courage but a step forward into a moment without a shape?
…a fish in a net is as good as dead

laying bare on granite,
the sound of the waterfall fills the entire universe,
where is there such thing as a problem?

 

it is wise not to love someone too much while they are still alive,
love them instead each time that they die in your arms,
eyes on eyes, hands in hands,
take moments to die together each day

 

oh how the stars draw us out from the mud of our original homes,
tasting fine wine and aged cheese, we lock ourselves in time.

we polarise and we jeopardise our innocence for projections of better lives:
a greener garden, a deeper love, a bigger bank of plastic paper and kings and queens and untold horrors, we sacrifice our innocence…

we lock ourselves in time.

oh but hollow are thine thoughts, 
oh but hollow is thine money,
oh but empty is thine stomach,
after caviar and wine.

for no love was made in the future,
no baby born in the past,
no ecstasy is to be found,
in words and drawings.

so tell thine favourite stories,
draw to thy hearts content, 
but on thine dying bed,
with thine head on thy lovers lap,
do not touch a single thought,
do not long for thine mind.

For thy are here,
eternally here,
do not miss it…
thine death is ever-present