The guru’s welcome address
asks his students to suppress
lust and tread gently on earth,
faith-filled heart bubbling with mirth.
We cannot say we agree,
since we’d rather roam carefree,
mood and mode, embrace-release,
garnering the truth with ease.
Instead of suppressing lust,
steering heart towards deeds just,
doing thus, standing erect,
we do as God does direct.
There’s no shortcut, walk the talk
and before fear forms don’t balk,
simply purifying heart,
God-search in silence jump start.
As for faith as blind belief,
how can we turn a new leaf,
until we are touched by grace
and we see God face to face?
Of course negating desire,
ignites our heart’s sacred fire,
thus the Buddha’s middle way,
perhaps may make earth life play.
Holy books do seek to teach,
just as weary pastors preach,
so we listen and reflect,
which boxes need to be checked.
Poetry is Love
Karma inwardly
Karma outwardly
All of Thee above
Find the Middle Way
Give Yourself away
The Asian version of Life
Is of a wheel that endlessly spins
Rotating in kaleidoscopic scenes
Of beings in realms
Trapped by their karmas in endless suffering
Endless until it, of course, ends
Which is what all things must eventually do.
In the West the dominant view is now
Of an endless cycle of Life
Where we don’t actually become anything
After we die, just a nutritional building block
In the ecological web of growth and decay.
It’s a rational seeming world view,
But one devoid of soul.
On the whole these two views compliment
And complete each other;
Soulful and soulless
To give a sense of life on the wheel.
But the truth is neither are complete,
Together or alone
Because neither sees what lies beyond the wheel.
Of course, they say eternity and annihilation respectively
But what is the it that endures or dissolves?
And if it endures was it ever really trapped?
And if it dissolves was it ever really existent?
Somewhere between is the middle way
Free of extremes and labels,
Free to simply be, what is, inherently ineffable.
(10/12/25)
Between action and inaction,
lies the optimal middle way,
of soul’s vibrance gaining traction,
invoking in time, divine grace.
With silence as our default mode,
feeling how polarities merge,
ineffable bliss fills our form
and as we sing to God an ode,
bliss magnetism begins to surge,
sweeping us away in love’s storm.
The simple shift from head to heart
and thereafter melding with space,
in time stretched stillness, a learnt art,
is how our soul invokes God’s grace.
Sweet Spot
On the ever shifting sands of time
The spectrum of human action balances
On a fulcrum between extremes:
Total government and tyranny on the Left
Zero government and anarchy on the Right,
Two ways that on paper may look good
Until practice proves them otherwise.
And in the course of this rise and fall
Systems are engineered to cope
In waves of thesis, antithesis and synthesis
Unloosed to compete for hearts and votes
In the marketplace of ideas and commerce
Seeking a sweet spot, a middle way, free of extremes
Where the individual’s rights are protected
By a limited government, from an unlimited one
And all other predatory entities.
And when this spot is tasted
Balanced for an instant
The tipping point is reached,
The teeter becomes a totter,
And we ride the cycle of up and down again
Until exhausted, defeated or victorious
And leave the playground to the next generation,
Eyes bright and eager for hope and change.
(12/15/24)
storm clouds relentlessly
crashed on rock bottom
with the only crack dragging
wreckage and carnage through
a trapdoor into oblivious fog
gruelling sediment confined
a rotten Self of incarceration
the stakes were high
for being impaled
a sizzling cauldron
waiting for a sumptuous feast
manna from hell and a spell
on the barbed wire walls
just behind the firing squad
gift of despair cajoling
hope from the darkest
of abysmal recesses
a balancing act on a
thorny yet slippery cross
one road leading to nowhere
the other painful but promising
no middle way to be had
between death or surrender
fear of the unknown certainly
better than certain demise
Phoenix just be aware of
of the message of Icarus
then the moon will be
waning and waxing
in perpetual motion
dancing into the light
The road not ending is growing wider.
Spreading all the way down and up again.
Hot shovel digging and soaring lighter.
Walking the straight line beginning amend.
Each moment new and keep myself steady.
No time elapsing and hold my heart true.
The light not too bright; dark never ready.
Nor to warm or too cold; middle ensues.
Not craving the escape of elixirs,
or overindulge a ravenous girth,
nor snatch symbols of sensual fixers.
This road traveling is all that is worth.
No hunting the material abound.
Hands touching the sky, toes grasping the ground.
She touched each one but soon they cleared like smoke
little infant rogues, always ready for the heady toke
She prayed to the Gods above but all she got was pain
drenched to the bone by torrents that gave way to rain
So in the end she chose the middle way of no return
Icarus moments in the sun that didn't crash or burn
Resting in God's love she got to see the other side,
feeling vibrant and blissful like the slow ebbing tide.
Reset your body with the affirmative motion
of your awakened senses dear child
Invigorate your soul and proclaim your life
through the middle way and let the self
assimilate with the oneness of it all.
Lose yourself in the timelessness of essential
both in heaven and on earth,
renewal is key element to Spiritual Revival.
Life
is
like
a toilet roll
~when it's half way
it finishes faster
Disgruntled, they come to me as bit-parts
ripped from black and white movies.
Mad aunt Anastasia, who should have been a nun,
one of her hands would refrain from touching her,
the other has been long carried off
by wolfish priests.
The Holy Ghost has pickled her in a jar,
she now floats between worlds.
Uncle Sean, the iniquitous Maître D'
looming above a meaty cleavage,
he who flambéed Steak Diane
with a slyly sapid leer,
poured cognac,
then after the salacious hunt,
triumphantly decanted his thirsty+ lusts
into any grateful woman
whomever.
Cousin Tommy died early,
but not before he had burnt through
the Old Testament.
A brimstone disorder gnawed his innards,
left him lacking normal human kapok,
kept him bubbling until a self-inflicted wound,
blew out his brains.
There are cousins removed and living,
who disassemble themselves, with zealotry,
or ennui. None took the middle way,
none quietly settled-in
to live a life of unremarkable normality,
trysting the nights away
with damp-stained regrets.
Like larks’ tongues, they sing in the invisible.
They reside in the far reaches,
until dark angels flame out
in their berserker eyes.
Here for a while with pain and gain,
See the plain truth with conscious feel;
Wear a stern style but not in vain,
Each act bears proof in swirl and spill.
Look deep to see the middle way,
Know your self well so love can bind;
Then you can be the cast you play,
Watch how thought dwells with peace of mind.
Etch your clear sketch in journey quest,
Seed soul and heart with ample feel;
Live poise you match as cheer blooms fest,
Sculpt your own art with zest and zeal.
Let fire greet fire in life’s hot spot,
Glimpse what now sires in play and plot;
For burning pyre tells yet a lot,
Sense faith aspire with arc of thought!
In a dream, I was on a mission.
A mission to rescue a nation.
A nation in a quagmire.
A quagmire not as usual.
A high mountain, I had to climb.
Climb it, in its nakedness.
Nakedness and grassless up to the crest.
Up to the crest, it was slippery.
Up I looked. It was all stiff nature.
Nature hindered me reach the peak.
But the peak was my target.
Target to reach and take a rest.
Middle way, odd winds blew me back.
Back, I snubbed to go rancid.
Go rancid or move up, I decided.
I decided to climb up.
Up, I failed to progress. Down, I sat.
In my laps, my head I buried to think.
Think as new energy I gather.
Never, up I shall give.
Poem by Mugisho N Theophile
flights of thought suspended
emotions postponed
scintillations unravelled
circular stagnation
levitation time warped
inside the Buddha meets trepidation
loincloth gets looser
scent candles burn blisters
on sandalwood base
fused with a valley of tears
a river flows backwards
in which one cannot swim twice
third time fortunate
he finds middle ground
inspired by expiration
middle way between
desperation and movement
Freedom loves choice,
left and right or the middle way
all are paths to walk each day
Hum and ha and other druthers
are the price we pay
for sweet liberty.
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