Zen Pipes
Clogged - up to the eaves
time to roll one's sleeves,
is this the way of zen
raking the leaves again,
observing one's thoughts, but never
tying the two together ?
Asking of mother earth
what was ' I ' before birth
and of the autumn sun
what will ' I ' be when I'm gone ?
When letting go would say
dont grip your life as booty,
colourful hints of red
voicing a dying beauty ;
tossing thoughts with the leaves,
clearing a way for Zen -
what I heave to the wind
the wind may blow back again :
Fancy I hear a voice -
' You are the trees turned yellow,
turn you to brown despair,
'til you are ripe and mellow,
three pounds of flax for a rope -
hang you on threads of hope :
The whole edifice of belief
is built on the ancient brain,
clear it away and let it flow-
and rain, rain, rain ;
Love speaks through nature
with such sad empathy,
and is this less than the swirl
of grouts, in my cup of tea,
Copyright © Roy Austin | Year Posted 2008
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