soft and warm

the grey sky is shattered,
birthing the virgin rains of spring's first light,
as the rounded, full western bellies,
who think they have worked hard enough,
converting, 
subverting,
sit slovenly,
sucking up against the table,
eating hard and fast,
yapping about the tooth and nail wars,
the tooth and nail fight,
they eat quickly,
they can hear the wolves scratching at the door,
they can feel the waves lashing the shore,
but what do they know?

my mind slips back,
white sunshine blasts through the green fields of my younger days,
when I had resigned myself to a simple path,
that quickly gave way to imminent confusion and struggle,

holy knowledge is not the product of scripture,
but rather experience,
like the calloused fists of old fighters,
the worn frets of a Stratocaster,
the dog-eared pages of a poet's notebook,

the crooked path of the Dharma,
moves to the fatigued, wise and worn,
from the soft and warm.









 

by their fruit

a mother and child at the bus stop,
a man looks at his watch and adjusts his coat,
a man pushes a cart full of bags of collected cans,
a raven is perched on top of a street light,
a boy paints a landscape,
a girl is hounded by bullies,
snow melts to water,
costumed actors count votes for the person to be deified,
votes come in for the human to be deified,
a man lies with the sickness,
a woman undergoes the treatment,
chemicals course through a child's veins,
a trial by fire,
a ritual of purification,
heads bow outside the sepulcher,
the censer swings,
the prayer wheel spins,
objective gods,
subjective gods,
I reflect on the idea,
that brought me to the action,
that brought me to the fruit of my labour,
form and emptiness,
emptiness and form,
the good,
the beautiful,
the true,
but the lies lie at the bottom of the mountain,
where we must begin,
where we must try to help one another,
where we must try to help Sisyphus too.