Best The Buddha Poems
( This poem is about the ' Killing Fields' of Cambodia, 1975-79, where as many as 2 million people were murdered by the communist Khmer Rouge. I taught in Phnom-Penh from '73-74, and never met a people I liked more.)
They haunt me still,
the brown children laughing, always laughing,
the women voluptuous, languid,
their movement almost an invitation....
Even the traffic policeman:
crisp, clean, proud in uniform,
moving with ballerina grace
as hordes of cyclos and mopeds
and the occasional automobile
pirouette endlessly about him,
impatient bees made quiescent
by surreal beauty of white-gloved arms
cutting through thick tropical air....
Everywhere was grace, gentleness:
temples incandescent at dawn,
with ant trails of orange-robed monks
cradling their pot-belly begging bowls,
the patient women standing by the road
to lump rice into the begging bowls,
the monks always staring blankly ahead
as the women bowed low in reverence,
grateful their gift of life was taken....
And oh, how wondrous it was:
an accident in the street, yet no anger,
no bile--forgiveness, felt before thought,
thought before uttered....
How could such a people murder?
No, not murder-- slaughter!
Their mothers, fathers, aunts, uncles,
teachers, priests, friends and children too.
Change temples of peace into charnel-houses?
Schools of knowledge into abattoirs?
They photographed every butchered lamb,
like the devil's children on holiday,
and decorated the classroom walls,
a show-and-tell of horror and despair.
Why? Why?--
Why such pain on
such a gentle people?
Why did God hide His face
while the world turned its back?
Fifty,
fifty,
fifty
years
and still...
still they haunt me.
I followed him
with bowed head
and borrowed faith,
until my feet grew heavy
from walking
another man’s truth.
I walked away
not in pride,
but in sorrow.
For how can one become the light
by standing in its shadow?
I looked into the mirror of my soul
and saw his face
already there.
He whispered,
not with words,
but with silence.
Silence taught me
what sermons could not.
Listening became my prayer.
I lost myself
in desire,
in gold,
in longing.
Only then
did wisdom find me.
By the river
I learned time is a lie,
and pain is a teacher.
The water spoke gently:
You must break
to understand wholeness.
I walked away from purity,
and found truth in failure.
No path fits every soul.
I loved.
I suffered.
I let go.
And only then I knew—
love,
not intellect,
completes the soul.
A decade and a half year ago
Explored Earth to and fro
Begging help and guidance too
Seeking knowledge from without
But to no avail answers were still kept
Keep wandering until Buddha and I met
Uttered words never heard
Radiates wisdom upon my head
Overrated queries were answered.
In the soft glow of a December moon,
Beneath the banyan tree where silence blooms,
The Buddha sat,
Eyes closed, heart open,
Listening to the whisper of winter's breath.
A star pierced the dark velvet sky,
Its light falling like snowflakes upon the earth.
It spoke not of kingdoms or thrones,
But of a manger’s quiet humility,
Of a child swaddled in simplicity,
Love cradling him like a prayer.
"Peace," murmured the Buddha,
Fingers brushing the earth,
A witness to the stillness within,
The eternal birth of compassion.
Candles flickered in distant windows,
Echoing the Eightfold Path,
Their flames a reminder
Of the suffering they melted away.
The carolers sang of angels,
Voices rising in perfect harmony,
Not unlike the chant of monks
Seeking refuge in their sangha,
Both finding the sacred in the collective.
“What is this day but a moment?”
Buddha pondered,
A single thread in samsara’s weave,
Yet a chance to pause, to breathe,
To drape the world in love's quiet cloth.
So Christmas met the lotus,
Silent joy kissed eternal peace,
And in that union,
The world grew still,
For a breath,
For a lifetime.
Here, wisdom bowed to grace,
And grace to wisdom.
The sleeping lambs nestled in the
Silver bullet,
Hot from the gun.
They slumber through the sketches
Of Spain until finally
The veil of moisture meets plum lipstick
And it’s time to depart;
Time for the slaughterhouse.
They scurry out from their earthy tomb
And venture to what’s beyond the gun’s chamber
And easy womb.
Beady eyes flinch-
I want to be part of the herd!
O
but that is only possible
In this foreign land
If your dust forms the bricks
Or your skull is being sold
For £16
And has its righteous place on the shelf.
Being used as an amusing bookend
Along with serene Buddha.
To accept this binding contract is to understand
That we must question our obsession
To look like children or a withered old hag.
Not many souls wander the labyrinth like mine,
I guess they cannot commit their essence
To the stables and chambers
Where one nibbles on the carcasses
Of forms and blinks
At the silent wide eyed lambs.
While seeking inner peace
the most-hallowed Buddha
heard a chorus of angels
sing Hallelujah.
They weren't singing for him;
t'was for the Child and Madonna,
so he continued on
in his quest for Nirvana.
In the verdant sarcophagus of night
his pale, lifeless eyes unfocused
in a clearing irradiated by a cold beam
---the sitting Buddha
where he sits the forest dies
the grass withers
His pale light blinds me
So I write in inky darkness
But i cannot fathom him
or embrace with my eyes
his silhouette
In the crucible of morning
the sun rises like a flock of golden doves
but i cannot embrace the racing arc of dawn
Though through the viridian canopy
---shimmering coins
Can Love be in the Buddha nature?
Unrequited Love is not in the Buddha nature.
Buddha; the awakened one,
had everything he wanted.
Born in Lumbini,
to royal parents.
One day he left
his life as a wandering ascetic.
While one of his journeys
World, all in slumber
Buddha was sitting, in long meditation
Santa came knocking
With a hearty “Ho Ho Ho,”
Merry Christmas.
Buddha, what do you want for Christmas?
You’ve been good to all.
“I don't need too much of nothing.”
Santa sailed upon his sleigh
and came upon Buddha one day,
greeting him with a cry.
Saying, I'm bringing toys
to good girls and boys,
as on this toboggan I fly.
Yep, I'm a plump, jolly fairy,
and will make children merry
with things here in my sack.
Oh, the joy they'll find
when they have what they pined,
and no longer lack.
Santa, I crave nothing in your sled.
My gift, you see, is wisdom instead,
as I remain mindful.
I don't seek Christmas merriment
from a drink or intoxicant,
however delightful.
And so, two men of worth
bore gifts for children here on earth.
You must believe it!
I only tell you this because
that's the way it really was.
How then, did they leave it?
God bless you Buddha!
I'll be on my merry way.
Peace be with you Santa,
Have a nice day!
He sits smiling
Almost smirking
Inaudibly chanting
OOOOOOOOOO…my
OOOOOOOOOO…my
A gathering
Of gatherers
Seizing moments of glee
Lost in animated wrapping paper
Children lost in a moment
Bathing in the innocence of now
Sharing their unfettered joy
The Buddha smiles
Knowing
They will spend a lifetime
In search of
such moments
Down the fervent aeons Buddha’s sagesse,
casts its august shroud on benign witness,
shades, shadows, subtle symbol shift,
encompass cosmopolitan and temporal,
incongruous to flaccid predilection feigned,
astute statue of nuance and nicety,
crosses annual acme’s snowflake whirl,
Christmas that propitious seasonable fount,
amid the merriment and jubilation stirred,
can wry dispensation be somehow drowned,
sculpted mould epitomising solemn pearls,
to counter spartan sparkle an uneven match,
for the blissful bubble oft recurrent judder,
though evaluation oscillates on this thorny subject,
palatial gift as lavish token bountiful toward,
unswerving fellow pilgrims of our jagged journey,
despite the avalanche of advertiser’s counterfoil,
triumphant warm rush Burra Din advantage,
can engender migrating episodes deft mutual,
as the Buddha manifests a dovetail harmony,
strained coexistence with December frolic
in the most enshrined but unforeseen locations,
where Buddha influencer might drop wry hints,
juxtapose amidst jollied Christmas victuals,
where bear necessity bordering on martyrdom,
is gratuitously extolled in quaint quintessential quote,
that arrant caustic jibe at the apparently trivial,
the importance of recurring benchmark scope,
as that valid institution built on solid query,
might be seen as an awkward encroachment,
to the much pilloried fanfare of modern life,
changes are afoot when blind pursuit exhales,
has in zoom of instance been Buddha fostered,
if one probes forensically profound into the furore,
where future life burden is an exponential angst,
so abundant amid a sinister spiralling pessimism,
the seeds have been planted in a sprouting urn,
for above the shoulder carry torch consciousness,
a synchronous embryonic Buddha ethos at the core,
one is cognisant of this in zealous online sweeps,
where a budding spirit Christmas mosaic adjunct,
is a Buddhaesque nod on foot of wellness kinship
to concatenate shrouded inkling o’er enduring quest,
on the universal isthmus of humanity plagued by panacea,
one suspends as Buddha meets Christmas on a jubilant,
December day exuding generous exchange across the globe,
it’s a down the centuries dilemma entangled in time,
This weather-worn stone statue of him:
Cross-legged under a tree, surrounded by
Flowers in the garden;
The expression on his face fixed inwardly, Knowing, placid,
Be it Spring, Summer, Fall or Winter.
There was a picture of Buddha behind him
That heightened my first impression
It somehow seemed symbolic of his soul’s deepest desires
Symbolic of the utter restlessness yet security that his life represented
A simple guy
Yet highly dogmatic about the turning of our times
A bit morbid for me
A bit morbid for us
I longed for the moments when silence struck
Whether in the bustling city or secluded at the coast
To gaze into his eyes and ignite something
Something neither of us felt comfortable speaking about
My hand brushes through his reddish hair
Slightly adding to the messy fringes that were astray
There were no words to say
Words interrupted our natural rhythm
Of an otherwise peaceful connection
No need to define this divine selection
Expectations open the door for conformity
That which we repel
Yet neither of us can stop this vicious cycle
The past making headway where it doesn’t belong
The future lying dormant in our dreams
Just when I think he’s a stone cold sinner
He cradles my face with his hands and softly brushes the sand off of it
Grain by grain
As the arguments become more frequent
I look for the happiness in the smallest of places
In the tiny fragments of our eyes
As they lock in perfect unison
The touch of our hands
Full of a magnetic energy that I try to deny
I knew why his face was so sad
Why tears came streaming down
but not of my own creation
For a gentle smile would let me know that everything was okay again
That we would survive the pettiness that struck our core
That caused misunderstandings with no erase button
I’m not sure who you are
Some days I’m not certain I want to know
Yet something keeps me awaiting your voice
Awaiting your embrace
As I recite the words in my head that seem impossible
That seem to surge through me without choice
I choose to accept the undying fate
As I silently whisper….
Goodbye
Iam Gautama buddha, an enlightened despot of East Asia, Who met the mass of Christ or christmas, I delighted to see the Christian tree, I remembered the similar bodhi tree, under which I got enlightenment, I have seen Jesus Christ, the messiah of Christianity as a great Bodhisattva, I considered the month December. as a notable one in which Christmas and Bodhi day took place, I advocated the virtues like. generosity, kindness and consideration, which were followed by christianity, I focused on universal values like
peace, love and kindness Which were championed by Christian,
I believe resurrection strongly,
Which was confirmed by Christ, Who raised from the dead on the third day after his crucifixion, I propagated humanism in South East Asia, This was continued by the son of God Who spread the humanistic values. through out the whole world,
Maya's son was happy to meet Mary's son, Who sought the kingdom of God.