The things I'd resort to
when I thought to please her
I've since been taught not to be
a top of the toothpaste tube squeezer
no longer dog-earing pages
of books I'm reading
and only go slow when driving
no more speeding
but it's all in vain
as nothing gets by
no matter what I do
or how hard I try
as whatever the option
it's always her choice
it's almost as though
I have no voice
yet truly do my very best
but in the end I'm really sunk
so much for best intentions
may as well be a monk
A monk, hooded
A nun, veiled.
Offputting as tis odd
In seeing.
For what's exposed
As permits
Of worldly light, my face
To smile in.
By Phan Tan Hai
Holding his alms bowl, the monk walks on,
his robe stitched from clouds across the sky;
we send him back to the mountain corner—
how many partings in a single life.
Standing, sitting—all for the people,
his chest still aching from blades once struck;
tears flooding the three realms,
Avalokitesvara embodied in his form.
A time he left, burdened with sorrow,
feet weary along both banks of the Ganges;
turning back, he awakened as Minh Trí,
his hair falling like dust along the road.
— For my friend Nguyen Cong Bang,
later a Theravada monk with the Dharma name Minh Tri.
As I was doing Tai Chi in my room,
my breath became the wind.
I turned around; a statue of a Tibetan monk spoke to me.
He turned into a man, and he showed me a secret handshake.
The next day, as I was fishing,
a lion and two tigers were inside the white house.
I gave them two bowls of food:
the lion had freshly diced tuna with a base layer of guacamole,
the two tigers had raw beef.
As I was petting the tigers, one of them put his paw on my arm.
The razor-sharp edge of his claws brazed my skin so gently but so fiercely.
The lion smiled back at me as a close friend would.
We took a yacht out and sailed through the city,
not caring about the red lights or the boundless places we could go.
City light's flashing past us as we glided on the water's edge.
Jazz: The Eternal Quest
In the smoky jazz haze of days gone by, Masters stood, their spirits soaring high, Miles, Monk, Coltrane—voices bold and free, in their minds, the seeds of destiny/
Jazz players fueled the fire’s glow, inventing new ways to make the soul flow. Each note a question, each rhythm a quest, Pushing boundaries, never at rest/
Today’s young cats, with history in their veins, learn from the giants, embrace the gains, Education sharp, their ears wider, in jazz’s river, they ride the tide to forever/
They chase the sound that’s bigger, fuller, truer, a deeper groove, a bolder view, to craft a world where the spirit’s free, Jazz’s future, a mystery/
So, next gig, let your sound transcend, seek that edge, that magic blend, for jazz’s soul is endless, vast, and grand—A timeless dance, forever unplanned/
In the midst of many, we walk alone,
inking the vast void with our heart’s emote,
recognising no truths are etched in stone,
so retaining soul’s vibrance we free float.
Images shape shift as dream forms that swirl ~
Through the mists we watch flag of love unfurl
Coffee is a reasonable substitute
for spirit possession.
Surely your heart will tremble,
open the gateway
for earthquakes to exist
within the fault lines
of your fingers —
but at least your pants will be piss free
when the officer asks you
to dance along the straight line.
And when he asks, “are you nervous?”
you’ll respond in the affirmative.
Explain how since 1996
you’ve been waiting for the day
an asteroid directly impacts your car
as you sip espresso
heading southbound on the I-10,
on your way to work.
And you won’t have to explain to your coworker
why your pants are missing,
ass in the air,
bad decisions spilled
on the fresh mopped floor —
dreading the ride in,
knowing he knows
you’d never compete
with his fresh ironed shirt.
This morning I chose slow drip,
because life moves fast enough.
As we navigate this domain,
with past life memory erased,
while most pursue lust and shun pain,
we walk through this dream life unfazed.
We merely act as of God’s will,
as we navigate this domain,
along slopes uphill and downhill,
equal in sunshine and in rain.
Reflex responses we retrain,
our eye mindful and touch gentle,
as we navigate this domain,
the way we look, nonjudgmental.
We’ve surrendered and come undone
and no longer wear ego’s chain,
so nothing by us need be done,
as we navigate this domain.
Love is a ship
that already sailed
Once upon my lips
but in reality failed
I am not sad
It’s a super power
Experience that
Is a healing tower
Is better to love
Even if you lose
It builds you up
To skies of blues
I am content now
Knowing I am love
I write it down
All my tender stuff
The monk told me
It would distract
But I boldly
Didn’t listen to that
I’m a free spirit
Who’ll always love
I can feel it
From God above
thought spirals slowed, peaked awareness plateaued
calm lake of consciousness free from ripples
transcendental peace by grace so bestowed
became free from narrowness that cripples
poised for eternity in witness mode
one with oneness, condoned debts of love owed
Nonchalant to the quirks of fate
Breath by breath consciousness we hone
Trusting in grace of God alone
Mindful that thought forms do not bait
We know now we’re not body-mind
We’re living light, divine aligned
We rise in staid stillness sedate
Bliss magnetism ushers delight
We see Self in heart, shining bright
Without the need to meditate
Allowing bliss beats to renew
We are pure like fresh mountain dew
Heart at peace, poised at heaven’s gate
Feeling within soundless thunder
We feel each heartbeat in wonder
Nonchalant to the quirks of fate
Mindful that thought forms do not bait
We rise in staid stillness sedate
Without the need to meditate
Heart at peace, poised at heaven’s gate
The monk looked down at his tattered sandals.
He wondered if he could climb the high woody hill.
He shrugged and began the arduous climb.
From up high he surveyed the landscape,
And the sea beyond. Above was the vast sky.
No clouds to hamper his upward vision.
The universe was eternally infinite.
Who created it? God? The big bang? Who knows?
There should be a reality as to its creation.
God’s power would have been complex:
Both immanent and beyond it, transcendent.
What proof had he? Creation could be anything.
He got up and began his descendant.
His mind a fog of truism and fallacies.
After all, he was a monk with no god.
And so –
A Buddhist Monk Said:
Life's, indeed, valueless
Jot each day with a plus
I think, I save my soul
With my athletic goal
Why should any God block
My race as though ad hoc
I run like a cool stream
Should I have a fixed dream?
I am flux. I move on.
Each day is my own dawn.
My flame turns into storms
Don't I have, yet, my norms?
“a homogeneous mass of consciousness, God as the all there is, mind cannot name
being both immanent and transcendent, living light intimate in heart aflame”
Faceless as an abstract concept,
clairvoyant moment on the heart.
Formless as smog and smoke
you can feel Him all around you
though He isn't there....
Mind cannot shape an image
but it can converse with intimate delight.
Devotion and intercession
gatherings of adoration and worship
we draw Him in, through hymns and prayer.
Buddhist Monk * Priest
Rabbi, Imam, Pujari, Pandit !
all devotees of the One Almighty God.
Homogeneous by tapestry of life's reform,
an entity so priceless, one cannot disparage.
A Cistercian and a Buddhist monk
sat facing each other
across a simple wooden table
in a cold room;
a shaft of sunlight
from an open window
illuminating
the coarse bread
and a simple bowl of beans
they were sharing.
One monk with god;
one with no god
discussing the journeys
they had made;
the paths taken.
Two horseflies entered
through the open window
bothering them both,
and the food they were eating.
The Cistercian
quickly swatted one fly
and brushed it to the floor.
The Buddhist
took a sheet of paper;
carefully lifted the other fly from the bread,
walked it over to the window,
set the fly free,
and closed the window.
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