Long Zen Poems
Long Zen Poems. Below are the most popular long Zen by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Zen poems by poem length and keyword.
Listen up and learn deep,
said our non-existential Zen Math teacher.
I'm only saying this once
and it will be on tomorrow's test
now nearly finished
in today's final rest.
1. All nomials form a universal network
of synergetic polynomials,
just as all information memes
are part of a communication memory system
or there would be neither independent variables
nor interdependent memes.
2. All nomials are also binomials
for the same reason we call half
a two dimensional flat moon
a full
four-dimensional round revolving moon
and refer to a quartile of moon
as a bilateral half moon;
just the light side
excludes shadowed night side.
3. Which is also why digital information
is always potential cobinary bilateral communionation,
like bright independent thoughts
and their foreshadowing codependent feelings;
and why double-binds are also double negative equivalent
co-arising not this and not that unknotted paradox
dividing and diversifying not positive
and not negative
appositionally bilateral co-incidents.
4. And why,
on a Zero Zen-centered Earth,
all polynomials are equivalent to double-negative polynomials,
dualdark shadow Yin square root prenomial
ecologically co-relational feelings
equivocating Yang not not fully postnomial
logical bicameral thoughts
re-membering
re-connecting
re-ligioning
re-vitalizing 1-mind/(0)-soul bilateral regenerativity
co-arising polymathic multisensory
4D 1-trilateral space/(0)-bilaterally balanced time.
Those are my
not not rational questions.
Now, could we become a more resiliently comprehensive
resonantly transformative
+P = -(-P) cobinary response?
By Phan Tan Hai
The teacher taught: look into mind, no words appear—
in the wordless dawn, sunlight speaks.
Ancients and future ones smile like a dream;
who strikes the bell and steals a character today?
The teacher taught: rings, bracelets, ornaments—
all are one sky of non-duality, pure gold in nature.
To stir the mind of distinction is to drift away
into the vast waves of three realms, six paths.
The teacher taught: a hundred thousand cakes
are but one invisible dough.
Liking and disliking open countless worlds;
seeing the unborn mind is the unborn.
The teacher taught: this world is a play—
today this role, tomorrow another.
Suffering, like the great ocean of waves,
is still one nature of water, never apart.
The teacher taught: impermanence in all worlds—
to see it as real is delusion.
Do not say “is” or “is not”;
in wordless stillness, one does not err.
The teacher taught: emptiness is form—
like a hand turned over, palm to back.
To see nature is to see no self-nature;
hearing the bell, one sees the Dharma.
It’s early Sunday, I can see my breath
The morning air is crisp but not cold
The sunrise is reflecting on the river
My greyhound is bundled up beside me
My feet walk briskly, grounding me
My dog walks on my left, beside me
His tags making a soft jingle sound
I can see my dog’s breath as he walks
The sound of his feet and mine together
A rhythm that is soothing and grounding
Suddenly an eagle swoops over the water
Magnificent with his wings open wide
We stop and pause, taking in the beauty
We walk around town, it’s calm and quiet
I now feel more relaxed and refreshed
Thankful to have these Zen moments
He lay watching the ceiling
falling upwards.
"Meditation" he thought,
"where does the mind go
when it leaves its fishbowl?"
Questions,
one after another –
Where the inflatable Santa?
Where the rescue center?
Where the House of the Lord?
"Shadow play" he thought,
"I'm just playing with shadows."
Then Santa took a BB bullet;
his last thoughts wheezed out
from a small mouth-shaped hole:
All rescue centers are adopted
by homeless prayers.
In the House of the Lord
words rent rooms.
The moon does not miss its own light.
Water has no memory.
The fish in his bowl kept on circling.
Japanese Zen Garden
I created this garden for you.
With silent winds and a still heart.
Where radiance unfolds its fragrance,
filled with a sweet nosegay,
I offer you Egyoko-bowls of blessing,
Jewels of wisdom.
As we listen to the koto zither,
Plucks its strings, echoing through
through Bonsai trees,
We feel Fuubutsushi takes hold:
The atmosphere is filled with objects
For your delight while reading haiku.
This invitation is my request to you:
whisper of the lotus, a moonlit pagoda,
Bamboo shades beside flowering sakura.
Cherry blossoms echoing the Jade River
Of ancestral tradition.
While we sit in a kanen moment
under the glowing moon,
The light reflects off a mediating
Samurai statue.
Surrounded by karesansui, the day
landscape that prompts Shizuka,
A quiet calmness.
A still circle resets upon the pond,
And koto tones sing behind the
Wind chimes in the yoake no shijima-
The profound quiet of daybreak-
at the end of the unfolding night
In absolute stillness.
Here, in Kokoro no Niwa-
the garden of the heart, my soul
amongst the forgotten notes,
We share Haru no Neiro:
The melody of spring.
bliss manifest
first resisted
then accepted
finally awaited
breath by breath
thus arousing
within heart
an expectation
of benediction
by God bestowed
our anticipation
is a visualisation
memory induced
hoping our form
is bliss energised
in unending renewal
this subtle desire
is alright per say
yet it presupposes
that we’re this body
and not soul eternal
we also feel not
eternal light of Self
which is who we are
pulsating in singularity
wherefrom we descend
into this gross density
unless we fully embody
essence of our true Self
into organic form
holding steady awareness
in an unbroken continuum
we cannot affirm
that we are awake
__________________________
Three spiritual traditions have created beautiful thoughts on spirituality in the form of short poetry. One is the Zen tradition of Buddhism, known for its enigmatic haikus. The second is the Sufi mysticism of Islam under the influence of Indic thoughts. And the third is Baul tradition from India’s East (Bihar, Bengal, and Assam).
Here, the first of the two haikus was brought in by a budding poet to osho (a Zen master), Matsu Kinsuk Baso for his comments. The master was quiet for a while and then said, a poem is a creative tool. Your haiku has a violent thought. If I were inspired like you were, I would have written it like this (second haiku).
The first talks of mutilation, the second of transformation.
The first has a downward movement, the second, upward.
The first has reductionist perspective, the second, expansive.
The first summons tragic mood, the second, joyful.
The Zen master kept the same elements, but transformed the poem dramatically.
_______________________
Breaking the two wings
Of a bluish bumble bee,
What a blue berry!
If a blue berry
Were to sprout two vibrant wings,
What a bumble bee!
______________________
Musings | 25.08.2026 | analogy, bee, berry, Zen, Haiku
rabid desires
spread their fangs
in form we’re vulnerable
and so we choose to vaporise
becoming the emptiness of space
which is in, within but not of this earth
therefore immune from all manifestations
be this as it may, we see emptiness is barren
bereft of the tenderness of love sublime
the womb of existence seeks an echo
to frolic in the dance of polarities
as they seductively so spiral
teasing before embracing
in an explosion of bliss
thus negating nothing
we so immerse and emerge
soul in the lucid dream sequence
as does an actor on stage self-aware
bilocating attention between this and that
that prior soul agreements we chose to perform
be fulfilled from the fulcrum of mindful tenderness
"What is this strange place we find ourselves in
Trapped in the open, we find ourselves within"
Who can hear the forest still
Its light and mist fall calmly hushed
Bereft of leaves gripped in winter's will
Its naked soul lies burnt from autumns rust
Sundering haze as breath in cold
Melts in air through sunlit stands
Of forest simple, soft though bold
While natures will and peace command
Its parable is yet untold
Eyes behold serene repose
As tides of glimmering beauty shoal
To surge with mighty grandeur's glow
Into the heart it comes to rest
Zen's remedy is yet to show
The puzzle of this life’s mystery
As oneness flows to disclose
Can we be as one with every tree?
March 20, 2022
Winter warms me.
It’s not the fire
or the quiet cat on lap.
It’s certainly not,
the harried, hurried holidays.
The shroud of
same-making snow
(the compost pile is the car;
the tree stump is the berry bush;
the woodshed is the forsythia patch)
is how echoes come to rest.
The words of seasons go
unfollowed by commentary.
ou c
Sounds no longer b n e.
A thought leads not to thought.
Wet boots,
tea mug warm in palm,
sun so low,
the song of snow
(sung sans echo),
is the cessation meditation
sought by seekers
all long year.