The Still Small Voice in my Heart, by Muttering Madzub, aka John Hinton

Samsara, samsara, you look for tomorrow
you can’t find your hara
you’re lost in your way
Samsara samsara, birth and death just brings sorrow
your dream is self-centered
compassion awaits

I looked for God in all the wrong places
I couldn’t see the beauty in all of her faces
God was not in the wind that destroyed the high mountains
nor the voice in the earthquake that shook earth’s foundations
God was not in the fire that burned with desire
but the still small voice in my heart

Samsara, samsara, you look for tomorrow
you can’t find your hara
you’re lost in your way
Samsara, samsara, birth and death just brings sorrow
your dream is self-centered
compassion awaits

I searched for peace and found mostly chaos
brief moments of bliss that withered in my loss
Peace was not in Demon-strations, forgiveness of sins nor in my confessions
nor the dogmatic certainties that bit me in the ass
Peace was not in religion an immoral morass
but the still small voice in my heart

Samsara, samsara, you look for tomorrow
you can’t find your hara
you’re lost in your way
Samsara samsara, birth and death just brings sorrow
your dream is self-centered
compassion awaits

I looked for love in the heavens above
In nature’s sweet splendor and in sweet woman’s love
Love was not in the books nor the bards nor believers
nor the voices of truth, the pious deceivers
Love was not in the miracles nor myths
but the still small voice in my heart

Samsara samsara, you look for tomorrow
you can’t find your hara
you’re lost in your way
Samsara samsara, birth and death just brings sorrow
your dream is self-centered
compassion awaits

Birth and Death by Muttering Madzub aka John Hinton

Birth and death – simultaneous realization
Pain and bliss, with or without attachment, one and the same
Living, suffering, dieing – samsara
Being – compassion’s way
Gate, gate, paragate…

'Peace, Peace,' But there is no peace…

Looking for peace in the ocean of suffering?
Searching for The Way? Samsara!
Peace, another illusion to support the self centered dream
Peace is sitting in the midst of chaos covered in shit without self-identification
You are perfect as you are!

"They have healed the brokenness of My people superficially, Saying, 'Peace, peace,' But there is no peace. Jeremiah 6:1

Sitting with Samsara

By Muttering Madzub

Sitting with Samsarawatching waves go by.
Illusion and fantasy follow rivulets and eddies
that disappear as the current
carries the dream remnants
to the great ocean of forgetting

Samsara beckons me to join her babbling waters
voices calling me to leave
the pool where I sit.
The journey of the stream is so enticing
But when I bow to quench my thirst
My mouth is dry and wanting.

Samsara, maiden of mist and smoke
You promise your heart
yet spurn your lovers
as they fawn over you.
Your cruel intentions are veiled
with sweet lies.

Love is not in you Samsara,
Your capacity for intimacy
is shadowed by your ego.
No place for any other in your bed
Yet you bed all
with your siren call.

Samsara, you rise to slip into your element
And motion me to follow
Your desires drip like honey
Sweet without sustenance.
I am enticed, yet,
My desire is elsewhere.

Samsara my heart has found the Other
The One that sits quietly inside me
waiting for my attention.
I feel the Presence of ancient arms
Embracing and holding me
Enfolding me in crystal luminescence.

No attachment
No thought
No path
No dream
No suffering
No Samsara

Two Towers Falling

Two towers falling
Violence from the sky destroys illusion
Shiva and Kali dance
People, papers and ash
falling like leaves
from exalted dreams of surety

Planes of existence shatter megalithic gods,
Iconoclastic engines of mass destruction strike
to remind us of our preoccupations and presuppositions
Smoke and fire bellow from our bellies
combustion chambers filled with karmic excrement
that we refuse to acknowledge in ourselves

Impermanence burns in the nostrils
of all who breathe the fetid vapors.
We who witness our destruction
find explanations of terrorism plots
hollow and demeaning
without tenor or comfort

We are the fires of our own destruction
The murderers, the sheikhs and the robber barons
There are no victims,
no perpetrators of horrific acts…
Except when we choose to turn away
From the reflection that burns away Samsara

We the children of the bomb, offspring of destruction
We have unleashed unfathomable and uncontrollable forces in ourselves.
Justification of righteous vengeance focused outward, striking inward,
leaving us blind and toothless, unable to take in sustenance
The enemy that we seek we are.
The friend that we seek we are.

Only compassion can fill the void,
the crater left from our arrogance.
Violence and destruction melts
every moment we choose equanimity
Widows and orphans reunite in love
Sympathetic joy flowers in barren wombs.

Meta
Karuna
Mudita
Upekkha

Lie-brary Story

Lie-brary Story

Sitting in the lie-brary
I sit entranced with the pages of my life
Talking books with talking sticks that beat me
Yammer on and on

Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers,
all characters plotting my story
Do I cling to my story a little longer
hoping for a new chapter, a new verse, turn of phrase?
Hoping to turn the page on my life?

My life? My story? Attached?
Time to burn the book or, step back and take a look
and put the book back up on the shelf?
The story is always there

The story gets complicated
As the plot thickens
Guns, murder, life and death
Love, hate, lust.. dreamy dramas
That captivate and incarcerate

"Shhh, no talking in the lie-brary"
The librarian whispers
Shelves of stories that clamor to be read aloud
Yet the sepulcher of silence bodes ill for those that dare speak out truth

Attached to the musty, moldy stories that run through my head,
Endless streaming data, recording, revising and revealing
Book reviews and endless commentary persist
As my preferences order my stories so I can find them again and again

Words fade with time
"The library is closing in 5 minutes"
Do I scramble and check out my story now,
so I can read and re-read it over and over?
Or, do I just let them go until they disintegrate on the shelves…

When I leave my story on the shelf
my stories fade and crumble to dust and ash.
I leave the lie-brary as my eyes open slowly
and I begin to adjust to the light filled room
"I must have fallen asleep", I mutter to myself
I once was blind but now I am seeing…

---

Neo: Why do my eyes hurt?
Morpheus: You've never used them before.
http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0133093/quotes