Purring cat
on the back of my chair
waits patiently for me
to wake up
and pay attention
-
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Showing posts with label poem. Show all posts
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Sunday, September 27, 2009
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
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
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Dinner Poem by Shivadam
Dinner Poem
New guests pass by my table, and above the din of diners' voices, I hear one ask, "That is his name?" and the sound of that resonates in my heart.
I listen to the background wash of intermittently distinguishable human sounds and wonder: What if every tiny, sudden utterance were precious, like a flower... ephemeral, yet full in its glory as a manifestation of the One? Who but I would delight in each? Who would play a jukebox overfull with this song?
This room is a studio, each dinner conversation a jam-session for a CD to be released as a perfect creative expression of "The Voice of Allah Over A Meal." Every human sound, every utterance, each smack of lips, each sigh from that table-of-one, every too-loud laugh... all recorded here, immediately and permanently embedded in the molecular structure of the stone walls of this open room. Tonight, I alone have the stethoscope, won as if a prize for merely showing up.
Each sound is a cricket, and insect, a blossom...perhaps seen or smelled...maybe heard, maybe not, but a track in the mix, essential to the Master, just the same.
Yet, where, who will be the audience? It is pure creation. As producer, I bristle with anticipation of the potential! I envision it going out over the airwaves, now captured and then broadcast as precious wave patterns, each bearing the promise of the profit of joy. I see it arrive and dance the speaker of the radio in a noisy home, the pattern-beaten air barely cutting through and mixing into the din of a family's lively dinner-time banter... Oh, for the love of it all!
And, where it enters the home of the quiet, the sounds of distant, familiar voices soothe, because they resonate in the hearts of those who can hear above themselves the sounds of their other selves. Repeating again and again, yet never the same where they arrive - where they issue forth to reflect and enliven the chambers of the lonely, the alone who have gathered together to break their breads - these sounds do not perish where they find purchase in the ear of the soul.
Oh, Allah, dost Thou give Thy voice so freely, and with no desire that
each sound be cherished, that this cacophony may pass on as so much water over a fall? What abundant beauty dost Thou give so selflessly!
I sit, rapt, attentive and stunned to gratitude by Thy glorious symphony of the everyday, the under-rated, the inconsequential, the exquisite sound of Thy early evening voice.
- Shivadam
New guests pass by my table, and above the din of diners' voices, I hear one ask, "That is his name?" and the sound of that resonates in my heart.
I listen to the background wash of intermittently distinguishable human sounds and wonder: What if every tiny, sudden utterance were precious, like a flower... ephemeral, yet full in its glory as a manifestation of the One? Who but I would delight in each? Who would play a jukebox overfull with this song?
This room is a studio, each dinner conversation a jam-session for a CD to be released as a perfect creative expression of "The Voice of Allah Over A Meal." Every human sound, every utterance, each smack of lips, each sigh from that table-of-one, every too-loud laugh... all recorded here, immediately and permanently embedded in the molecular structure of the stone walls of this open room. Tonight, I alone have the stethoscope, won as if a prize for merely showing up.
Each sound is a cricket, and insect, a blossom...perhaps seen or smelled...maybe heard, maybe not, but a track in the mix, essential to the Master, just the same.
Yet, where, who will be the audience? It is pure creation. As producer, I bristle with anticipation of the potential! I envision it going out over the airwaves, now captured and then broadcast as precious wave patterns, each bearing the promise of the profit of joy. I see it arrive and dance the speaker of the radio in a noisy home, the pattern-beaten air barely cutting through and mixing into the din of a family's lively dinner-time banter... Oh, for the love of it all!
And, where it enters the home of the quiet, the sounds of distant, familiar voices soothe, because they resonate in the hearts of those who can hear above themselves the sounds of their other selves. Repeating again and again, yet never the same where they arrive - where they issue forth to reflect and enliven the chambers of the lonely, the alone who have gathered together to break their breads - these sounds do not perish where they find purchase in the ear of the soul.
Oh, Allah, dost Thou give Thy voice so freely, and with no desire that
each sound be cherished, that this cacophony may pass on as so much water over a fall? What abundant beauty dost Thou give so selflessly!
I sit, rapt, attentive and stunned to gratitude by Thy glorious symphony of the everyday, the under-rated, the inconsequential, the exquisite sound of Thy early evening voice.
- Shivadam
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
