Long Buddhas Poems
Long Buddhas Poems. Below are the most popular long Buddhas by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Buddhas poems by poem length and keyword.
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.
For years I had three wise monkeys seated on the table where I write.
They would greet me every morning when I first turned on the light.
Reminding me in life…whatever my desires….wants and needs…
to do the best I can each day to avoid evil thought and deeds.
Reminding me that even though I’m just one person
I must do my part as well…
to help create a world of peace…where evil has no place to dwell.
One day while I was cleaning my writing table…
(as I had cleaned a hundred times before)
I dropped my three wise monkeys who shattered into pieces on the floor.
I replaced those three wise monkeys with four little Buddhas
their message still as grand….
Three of the Buddhas matched the monkeys while the fourth
sits with a smile on his face…his cheek resting in his hand.
The fourth Buddha is my favorite…because he combines the other three…
his ‘Do No Evil’ is a message…every day he brings to me.
But not just to me…for if every person everywhere practiced ‘Do No Evil’
then everyone in every land
could contentedly sit with a smile on their face…
their cheek resting in their hand
As we journey through life their message is a profound but simple one…
apparently these four Buddhas know
If we pack our suitcases with peace, love, kindness, friendship and acceptance
then evil has nowhere to go.
And those three monkeys who no longer on my writing table dwell…
before giving way to the Buddhas left a message of their own as well…
That if we do nothing when se see evil being carried out
or evil being spoken…
How a life can easily be destroyed…and hearts forever broken.
Buddha is deeply listening
My esteemed teacher
kindly reminds me,
"To see the master
not as a [merely natural] human being,
but as the Buddha himself,
is the source [and resource]
of highest blessing."
But,
not necessarily the deepest blessing
for all EarthBodies
seeking spiritual multicultures
of regeneration.
For ecofeminists,
reincarnations of The Buddha,
win/win green
yet still appearing
and reappearing Male,
Remains win/lose disappointingly dissonant
with Padmasambhava's Promise,
"Complete devotion
brings complete blessing;
absence of doubts
[especially about issues of health and environmental safety]
brings complete blessing;
absence of doubts
brings complete [win/win] success."
It concerns me,
this universally intended
therapeutic resolution
for optimizing spiritual enlightenment
for all internal multicultural valuers
Still,
in the town where you live,
in the heart you won't give,
fails to recognize
a healthy green new deal
ecofeminist
may find it easier
if Master
were maybe more Matriarchal,
If male characteristics of The Patriarchal Buddha
could give more multiculturing room
to daughters and sons
and all trans-sensory in-between buddhas
and Positive Deviant Messianic EcoDesigners
and Feminist Carpenters
and Restorative Green Justice ReCyclers
and Climate Health Activists
Matriarchal Teachers
primally schooled by MotherEarth,
Goddess Gaia
Green NonPartisan CoPassionate Communicators
CoOperators
Win/Win Ego/EcoSystemic L/R dipolar gamers,
PolyPhonically conscious
of PolyPathic amusing thought experiments
spiritual
and sensual
and sensory
As Buddha,
deeply ecofeminist
and widely multicultural, listens.
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
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
learning how to dehydrate food was easy
but it was so hard to convince them
to get over the need for meat.
learning dehydration was easy: expensive but easy.I couldn't forget I called my Lover, she liked doing thing with me so I found it easiest to try recipes where she would taste and motive me to improve my performances. I made up terms as I would go along.One day she made the statement that She could coach a team of men to support her marrying me: due to my lack of concern for her needs as I had fallen in love with my new dehydration machine. She said that she was tired of employing the people of Newfoundland and Labrador to voice her concerns.I didn't get the joke.
I began a cycle of thought believing I could invent a new type of seasoning or at least create a new way to uses buddhas hands,chilis ,garlic, lemon grass,milk, sour cream,potatoes, chives onions and shucked clams, and fish as base for a broth bisque. I then added the gelatiny fat from pig feet stock.I was look ing for a full bodied taste. Something I could feed a soccer team on a cool spring morning, and by lunchtime they'd beg me for more.She inspired me this with her lewd joke: and I felt ashamed until one day, I had made a croutons from 3 loaves of day old bread: The garlicy buttered bread sprinkled with dried parmesan cheese complimented the soup so well that I called people over to taste it. People loved the smokey baconish-garlicy, suttle fishy taste of the creamy bisque were the tender potatoes and onions a combined to create a smooth soothing satisfying herb topped delicacy that wasn't kruel to the palette: but more fullor to tickle the need for more.
Special offer for forbidden fruit two for the price of one
Discounted pleasure until ultimate stock clearance lasts
Adam’s apples included
Unisex versions available
Sustainable and organic
Nails and planks for the eye flat-packed easy to assemble
Build your own bloody cross instructions included for free
Whips for self-flagellation
Strictly for over 18’s only
Change water into whine
Serpent skin negligees and rings for nipples and manhood
See-through loin cloths for aspiring Buddhas handmade in hell
Mount pleasant meets fig tree
Biodegradable Lotus blossoms
Kamasutra deflowering guaranteed
Eider ducks in a row and Noah’s Arc for foaming bath tubs
Pull the plug on solitude and play Eros full steam ahead
Rubber dolls with vacuum function
Touch Mahal at the press of a button
Mandala and kind Karma on the spot
Meanwhile Hey Judas blasts sounds through supermarket isles
As encouragement for a little temptation at the bread counter
Self-rising yeast and sugar watchtowers
Lick away your sins until kingdom comes
With crispy pretzels from Salt Lake City
Nihilist colouring books on display no glossy crayons needed
Agnostic wet dreams wrapped in silk brassieres and braces
The end is nearer than the cashier
A reaper tills luscious fields of plenty
Until blinders fall under a heavy load
30th December 2019
By Phan Tan Hai
Fifty years—sitting and remembering
a youth shattered by turmoil;
dreams still stunned with disbelief—
marching in the streets, burning cars, protesting.
Seeing my father hanging from a bridge,
seeing myself with a torn hat, begging;
seeing my mother weeping through a century,
seeing the sky emptied of a thousand birds.
Fifty years—never truly sleeping,
staring at history, eyes wide;
Nha Trang, Pleiku, Ðà N?ng—
night after night my hair turned white in the mirror.
Sunlight still falls on the old schoolyard,
dust dimming the faces of friends;
why should beauty grieve in storm season—
midnight, counting drops of rain.
Fifty years—dream or reality,
reading books by a flickering lamp;
touching life and feeling it break,
shaping a statue that never becomes whole.
Reading books, dreaming of peace for the world,
calling for gentle winds and kind clouds;
the monochord from school days—
blood still oozing from my fingertips.
Fifty years—friends from the Philosophy Group
carrying a mother’s lullaby into life;
writing verses of horses crying in the night,
mourning a history deaf, mute, and blind.
The midnight horn of the seventh lunar month,
pouring wine to send off wandering souls;
waiting for dawn in repentance,
vowing my life to be a tower of incense.
Fifty years—looking back,
sutras copied, tears blurring the page;
a thousand lifetimes drifting, still grateful to the Buddha,
sending all sorrow away with the falling rain.
History passes—its tragic river,
the conch shell’s call, the wandering troupe;
I kneel before the Buddhas of three times,
vowing my life to shine like a mirror.
--- This poem is dedicated to the writer Le Lac Giao and the members of the Philosophy Study Group at the Saigon Faculty of Letters, commemorating the 50th anniversary of their first meeting (1970–2020). Most of the group members have since devoted themselves to the study of the Dharma under the guidance of the Tibetan Temple in Binh Duong, Vietnam. This piece also serves as the Afterword for Le Lac Giao’s short story collection, "The Sad Smile of Summer".
By Phan Tan Hai
One more day—hair and beard turning silver,
murmuring each word of the wind of impermanence;
the old book strains my weary joints,
hearing ancient ages chill my bones.
Learning without end—the mind like sunlight,
shining across all realms, the afternoon deeply gold;
the night of Nirvana joyful and silent,
the day of Bodhisattvas filled with compassion.
One more day—walking in great fatigue,
each step of mind, each step of meditation;
sitting by the river, watching clouds rise,
seeing no self, seeing no boat.
Learning without end—the practice like stone,
without craving, without anger;
building countless bridges of illusion
to carry all beings across the river.
One more day—ears and eyes growing weak,
yet the undying mind bright as a mirror;
understanding at last the Teacher’s old words:
no single dharma—just the ordinary mind.
Learning without end—the practice like a mountain,
the mind unmoving through storms of the sea;
from the highest peak springs a stream
carrying compassion to bathe all beings.
One more day—this body nearing death,
ten thousand lives wandering through ten thousand homes;
yet in this very mind, the wordless Sutra—
Nirvana never far away.
Learning without end—the practice like the wind,
coming from nowhere, going nowhere;
hearing birth and death in every breath,
without delight, without sorrow.
One more day—watching the winds of karma,
patient, patient, patient—bathing in impermanence;
a friend stops by asking of countless lives,
I offer only a smile, and fall into silence.
Learning without end—the mind of all Buddhas,
moon rising over the mountain, the practice of letting go;
realizing no-self, the Dharma as it is—
no single mind, and that is the wonder.
what is wrong with thee?
o, plenty.
The non verbal,
repetitor.
She listens to wandering
ghostly attempts at
remembering
the past
to perserve
her future
to maintain
a quo.
ta.
of whom she laid eyes on,
upon the day
when her heart spoke
the language
of the unknown monk
whom the captain watts
often quoted,
the bible.s
the jesuses.
the buddhas.
the alahs.
the gods of gods and gods.
the lonely man,
from a distant universe.
sat in the house, on a cliff,
looked out his window to the desolate rocky ocean.
he grayed over time.
over worries
over creations
over complications and simplicities.
he, like us, also laughed and weeped.
with a pen in his hand,
direction from which is irrelevant,
wrote the play of life.
took his time,
might i add.
detailed.
spotted.
dotted.
zags.
his wife never nagged.
he had none.
he wrote.
dramas. mysteries.
but mostly comedies.
once his plays came to act,
suddenly he felt no responsibility.
it was his creation.
his ejaculation.
his ****.
his piss.
it was his external provocation.
the grand master of them all.
as we *****out daily nutrients.
and contemplate the paths of desires and dreams.
question reality. non reality.
the non creative.
the non god.
the non art.
rain drops fall.
as if nothing happened.
or perhaps a response to whatever had happened.
she thinks.
she also worries.
how ever miniscule.
grandiose.
sub-turbulous the design.
a hike to the Himalayas and back.
not a journey for the weak hearted.