Life and Death

The most dangerous temptation
Is to lose faith in life
Cynicism rests in a mind which fears to know
True choices are made by a mind willing to be changed
Despair rests in a heart which fears to love
Wisdom grows in a heart willing to be broken

In the innocence of youth we know
The importance of caring
For the wellbeing of a friend
For the touch of father, mother, sister, brother
For the perfect length of a day
And sweet tiredness at its end
As each new morning awakens us
Our eyes and minds and hearts
Are opened

To die in peace at the end of life
Is to know the perfect length of our days
And sweet tiredness at their end
Without expectation
We anticipate joy

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The Hard Way

Oh! It's hard days for a man at the tree of life
Sounding the underground depths and lakes of fire
where its roots abide
Ascending the branches
studded with thorns that wound and tear
As the tree exacts its price of blood

Oh! It's hard and lonely days for a man at the tree of life
No bird sings, no squirrel runs with nervous pleasure
No breeze winds its way through the leaves
waving secret messages
No rain relieves the glare and heat of relentless sky
No initials can be found carved on its trunk
Only the bones of Odin lay at its base
A bleached reminder that a hero's reward is death

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Peforming Art

yesterday, in the morning
I took up a musical instrument
for it seemed there was little else to do
little else of any importance
nothing else which would but add
to confusion and uncertainty
and subtract hours from my life
a poor but common sum of doing

a guitar is shaped like a woman
and her judgements are true
not harmful, but sometimes painful
a musical mirror which reflects my heart
and speaks of limits and of vastness
of sorrows and joys
of aloneness and completeness
in harmonious phrases

a woman is shaped like a guitar
and likewise instructs me
how she may be played
how a flowing resonance of elements
may spring from the joining
and kindly reveals my clumsiness
while encouraging my efforts
to play in an empty hall

many years ago a painter informed me
musicians are but technicians
I thought it an arrogant statement
but I was not offended
for I shared his view of the matter
little else to do
little else of any importance
but try to improve my skill
at being no one

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Machig Labdron

She dances, barefoot, with a drum and bell;
naked before the eyes of all,
but concealed by their own blindness.
Many blessing she bestows,
and treasures she reveals,
as she dances happily in the dark,
lithely 'round the grave stones,
freely past the ghostly bodies, cold and lifeless,
and the Demons howling noisily;
Machig Labdron, high priestess,
Goddess consort...
and dancer, barefoot, with a drum and bell,
naked before her master,
none other than herself.

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Lost

There is no past
There is no future
There is no present
The three times are crushed
by the weight of nothing
All is lost!

May the loser be lost
and search for signs on the soles of his own feet
May the helpless lover
pour out his love in a swamp
May gurus advise you with smugness
and harlots steal your purse
May your guitar strings break
and your tofu turn sour
May you be angered by pity
and shout curses at God

I rejoice in your good fortune!

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Uncertainty

Yet I wonder, how will I fare, how will I fare?
Having made a choice - while dreaming?
no turning back, I cannot now, in my sleep
find the past's unknowing waiting there.
And no amount of thinking lays the future bare.
If cursed I be, so be it... well prepared!
If doomed, well earned, a fate layed there for me
to grasp with hungry hands that clutch at air.
And no one is prepared.
And no one shall be spared.
Will all hang together, or all hang separately?
Bold magic, or power'd madness, how will I fare?
A cup that slakes a thirst for love?
Or one revealing hell when I awake?

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Castaway

To be cast out? Cast in doubt? Cast in irons?
Whose authorship is stamped upon this cage?
Is it only in the hillside roaring fires rage?
And so below, do peaceful lamp lights glow
making shadows with their rosy brushes
on walls of stone built solid 'gainst the pain
when in the wild wind rushes?
Is it dream, or waking
to flail about so fitful?
Is it wound or cry of birthing
the screaming down below?
So much fury!
Hurry! Hurry!
Embers creep across the floor.

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Offerings

if my hands could reach the offerings that flow from your bosom
a ripeness unconcealed and due in this harvest season
they would welcome that nourishing bounty
seeking hands that found them would know the veined, yielding roundness
and soft generosity in their spherical shape
hands that raised their substantial weight
would know the seriousness of their intention
the honesty in their purpose
the silky beauty in their texture
hands that found them would guide searching lips
and the taste of mothers milk would encourage thirsty man
milk from the breast of the goddess is life
"drink from me!" urge these breasts
"grow full and mighty and lift me up
so I might pour out my love as a tide
that gently invades every bay and mingles with every river
drink from me, and be strong my love
drink from me and embrace me for I am that which you seek
drink from me and embrace me and love me as I love you
these offerings given to me, are a sad burden if I cannot share
drink from me! that man may become god
and woman may become goddess
help my milk find its way to your heart
and shine out upon the world"

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Beloved

I wished to develop myself
to become my utmost self
not to be thought well of by others
but to become able to participate
in some mysterious magical love
And over years and heartaches
disappointments and confusions
I forgot what I was about
I still longed for a magical love
but it seemed so distant from me
that its shape became vague and indistinct
and so I mistook other things for it
thinking I must achieve something
or appear as something in the eyes of others
But you have made me aware of my mistake
made clear again what I sought these years
Because you are that mystery
who makes me full in life
and I have no more to search for
no more to do
than be myself with you
in this magical love

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