Short Gautama Poems

He meditates under the Bodhi tree 
like Gautama Buddha; his mind so free.



Couplet- any theme, any length Poetry Contest (Winner: 3rd Place)
Sponsored by: Dear Heart 
Date written: 04/25/2020...

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Siddharta Gautama Buddha
born with a silver spoon in his mouth, tired of reading sutra
awakened to the fact, fine clothes were uncomfortable, impairing 
sat under a tree, contemplating the spiral of existence while navel staring...

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Like a Buddhist mantra,
  its chord transcends worry and strife

In the song of Gautama,
  souls flee the delusions of life

Its highest form, charming saints 
  and sinners alike

Beyond distraction and pain,
—playing through both darkness and light

(Villanova Pennsylvania: October, 2016)...

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“I” is just a concept made by mind. Siddhartha Gautama

Mind has to dwell in a coerced seclusion: 
mind is a prisoner of the conclusion
that mind is mine. I share your letdown,
my mind. Minds cannot shatter the illusion
of the first person singular pronoun.

5/6/2019
Writing Challenge 3, August 2019- Five Lines- Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Dear Heart - Wiishkobi Ode...

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the king travelled incognito
mixing among the commoners
both delighted and also envious
of how they find joy in simple things
content even in poverty and shortages 
and then the king discovered their secret

they were all centred in heart
and not in narrowness of mind

even after garnering this deep knowing
the king was unable to become as such 
for he was not yet like Gautama Buddha

08-April-2023...

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"I have been a stranger in a strange land."  Bible, Exodus 2:22

Siddhartha 
Wanderer, ascetic, teacher, awakened
Son of Suddhodana and Maya
Lover of right action, right thought and right speech
Who feels ‘Desire is the root cause of all misery’*
Who fears Ignorance, Attachment and Suffering
Who would like to see people live life with right purpose
Lived in Bodhgaya
Gautama, The Buddha.

*strangely true, yet cannot be realized
...

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In his silent 'Flower Sermon',
Siddhartha Gautama held up a flower;
he said nothing.
Time passed, the gathering began to fidget.
Some thought to look wise,
some lowered their eyes in confusion,
most saw only a flower.

This morning,
I carry a vase of purple Iris to the window.
Outside in the garden, flowers are dancing.
We call it `dancing' when the wind moves them,
but there is no specific word
for what the woman in the flower does
when she is waving.


~~~
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