52.
My 9th Leaf
Got thee from small vase
Old décor replace
Host plant of 1st Leaf
Thrown away no grief
Diff'rent “fortune” plant
Planted by father
Installed there after
I was there when placed
A little so fazed
First leaf's host no more
Third day October
Sunset was nearer
While feeling not well
I'm under cold spell
Drinking I fruit juice
Just inside our house
Living room, oh browse
On vase first leaf was
‘Lil water still has
Buddhas adjacent
Simple day only
Not planned – truthfully
Just went to Passi
Withdrew some money
Wilted 1st Leaf host.
-10/03/2011
(Dumarao)
*My Toladas Collection
42.
My 1st Leaf
Got thee from tiny
Six-leaf plant only
It's ornamental
But not so floral
It's a “fortune” plant!
Maybe it's father
Perhaps my mother
Or younger sister
But not me – never
Who cared to plant it
‘Twas here years ago
One, two, three or so
But leaf I picked, hey
Thirty first of May
Twenty eleven
Here inside our house
In living room, browse
On petite vase, lo
With water shallow
Near little Buddhas
‘Coz I must begin
So it's origin
Of my Tolada
Sunrise of saga
Pinoy poetry!
-05/31 – 06/01/2011
(Dumarao)
*My Toladas Collection…I invented this while I was in my first “hang-over” after bonding with highschool classmates
Autumn,
Lingers in between my breaths. I passed by
A man sitting on a park bench talking on the phone:
'Its just me going in circles trying to get rid of this pain'.
I felt his pain. Stuck like a nail - a bitter gift given at
Birth
Human
Realm is imperfect my dear starseed.
Have you seen the 'Tale of Princess Kaguya'? I wishpered in
My thoughts.
She said human life was full of pain but love and beauty as well.
Well said.
Then she left
with caravans of Buddhas into heavenly realms.
But we are still here. Marching forwards like ants
Pursuing our goals.
Tiny humans changing colours like autumn leaves
To suit the season.
Cod bless ye dead folks
God bless each Soul
Those good lucky Dead
Over those evil has no control.
Cod bless ye dead folks,
Those too that have cause to cry
After all sundry sadness
They've seen to go by.
God bless ye
Ye sleeping beauties
Ye sleeping booties
Ye prizes
Death's pleasure
God's reward
Despite sombre guises
God bless ye:
Ye buddies
Ye Buddhas
Ye Friends
Keep loving and blessing
Till the end of the ends
Life is but a Golden Minute, So Rejoice
To Die a must, To Live a choice
Into Infinity the Sacred Chant
The Psalm Of Eternity, The Great Dance
Life is a Cosmic Journey amongst the Stars
So Live you must with all your heart,
All Is Dust, Remember This
But, The Soul Eternal, Seek Eternal Bliss
The Minutes Pass within a Fleeting Breeze
Like Buddhas Flute be in Abiding Peace,
Where the Rivers Flow, There The Great Dance Of Life
Within the Stillness a Heavenly Prize,
Find Truth and Purpose outside The Cage
This is The Way of Everlasting Grace,
And as The Sun Rises, It Too Shall Set
See It Be, And That Never Forget
a
gentle gust of wind
from
the
sacred wings of
the
owl moth
extinguishes the
candlelight flame
with
its
bamboo wings
inside
the
Buddhas temple
Robes of flowing milk
Mixed with light flowing honey
Nimbus of sunlight
Lotus of red, pink and gold
With buddhas in the petals
And black hair flowing downwards
Bussokusekika Poem about a medieval Chinese painting of the Prophet Mani (founder of Manichaeism) titled in English "Icon of Mani" (Moni is Mani in the Chinese language)
Like an eagle I soar and spin,
Hover over the skies within;
Searching something hidden for long,
Whence my life, like the Om, prolong;
Incessantly tuning...
A million stars of virtues shine,
With moons of morals intertwine;
Sun of honor never does set,
Entire heart does not seem bright, yet;
Dark spaces still swooning...
Enlightenment awaits the dawn,
Sacred fig trees boringly yawn;
Are Buddhas gone on holidays?
Are aspirations on stargaze?
Refrains from far crooning...
Divine spirit severely shakes,
Interiors, like the earthquakes;
Earth and heaven extend to meet,
Oceans and constellations greet;
Hearts and minds attuning...
21 April 2022
Bourgeoise Hippies
Littering your hallways with gold-painted plaster ?
Buddhas and empty singing bowls.
Building shrines and burning sage.
Eating leaves and teaching Yoga
Your mirrors are covered in dust.?
You drown your ignorance of compassion
In a shallow pool of consciousness.
All the while disregarding the comforts of your privilege.
My girls are of my meraki
My little women plump and primped
Bulging curvy corseted crimped
They never fail to catch an eye
Painted pretty multi designed
For each the right beholder to find
Hourglass Figures compared to Buddhas
And Venus de Willendorf's form so potent
But my girls they're feminine flotant
As each is but a sculpted phallus
With gender bending folds beguiling
They do inevitably lend to smiling
17.12.12
Composed for Silent One's
"Meraki"
Here is my teacher,there flies my teacher
One who taught me to be higher the Reacher
Do not lose hope she said,For morrow
Strive hard and walk through every borough
Might you be, what I was, that today
Forget not,I fly with wings above the airway
What they call,she said,really doesn't matter
What you is what you become is the charter
Might you be an ugly,crawling,torny worm
Get in the cocoon,straight and still without a squirm
Don't be gloomy,she said,never mind the bully
They will brick you,stick you and make you feel silly
Might you be calm and hundred Buddhas to come out,
come out fly away with vibrant colors crying aloud,
And lastly she taught me this,
For my life to be an endless bliss,
You will receive nothing you want,
But you will receive everything you need,
Here is my teacher,there flies my teacher
One who taught me to metamorph to change for better.
There is no Beauty.
In all the world
there is no Beauty.
In anywhere at all.
There is nothing
that is Beautiful.
The flowers, the clouds,
the Thousand Buddhas,
the kelp, the cottage,
the gazelle, the shell...
the motes in Autumn sun,
the twinkling nights,
the flecking paint.
Her neck...
There, too, is nothing
to
which we cannot bring
Beauty.
Beneath the sea of glistening stars,
Between the ethereal evening air,
Lies a forest of glowing dreams,
But as diverse and rich as they are,
None escape the same Moonbeam.
Under the lucent morning glow,
Roll waves of raving emotions,
Turbid fortunes and cruel woes,
The burning craving of billions,
Yet the same Sun illumes them all.
Princes, beggars and pretenders,
All dance their own tango with
Fortune’s jeering taunts and tantrums,
Each gambles to grapple with fate,
Yet upon the same soil they all tread.
The canopy of a grand old oak
Casts a wide and mighty shadow,
Ruffling with a myriad of leaves,
Adorned by blooming blossoms
That sprout in spring and wither in winter,
With branches amber in autumn,
Green in summer, and lean and bare
In Saturn’s season of barren frost.
Yet for all its lush richness, it still rests
Upon one abiding unchanging trunk.
So even as human affairs steer here and there,
And wander and meander like wetland streams,
The timeless source remains the same,
For all ripe fruits return to Buddha’s root.
https://purelandsutras.wordpress.com/2017/01/21/the-buddhas-masterplan/
Poem released into Public Domain
It was less savory.
The tibia breaks and you
enter into unbuttoned dress.
*
The deviance was abusive.
I cannot accept the celebration
of skin, unwrapping small Buddhas.
*
When the fear recedes, I will
move around the words?
to seek the meaning.
Satish Verma
great leaders sup in style
tete a tete, haute cuisine
attentive servants grovel
perfectly pleased to preen
as common soldiers while away
the quick moments of their lives
until the final stanza
battle screams, widowed wives
bullet sandwich breakfast
shrapnel pie for brunch
body bags for supper
**** and mud for lunch
something on the radio
the leader's can't agree
further talks tomorrow
perhaps yet peace may be
advisers are advising
the innocent are dying
beasts and buddhas sympathise
the leaders can't stop lying
but wait there's been a breakthrough
the deals have all been signed
the oil is in the barrels
the gold and jewels mined
communicate the press release
now sated they do order
glorify the martyr's death
the graveyard is a hoarder
a thousand generations now
one more will it matter
think they one more drop of blood
will make the gold cow fatter
why do they wake the bloody beast
why do they profit from it
blue murder in the name of god
by christ they make me vomit
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