by Ruth Pink| after picnics fairies leave their crumbs on toadstools |
growing up with dying needles: a young pine tree |
| in burning pain, a bowl of white rice brings comfort |
on fine glistening thread; a small spider strangles a blowfly |
| sweeping - the broom, the sweeper and me |
like dry rice paper on my cheek: your last kiss |
| darkness without moonlight - the black rabbit's eye; shining |
in silence; the chainsaw leaves teethmarks in the air |
| thoughts like fish in black water - sometimes a flash of silver |
in silence; a riot of river, cicada, and my breathing |
| rising, like a flock of seabirds from sand: cells in the body |
inside the red dark of heart; a bell rings |
| days of rain - even the pigs need gumboots on this track |
inside the ear - an orchestra: small bones play the wind to the brain |
| at home with 2,000 people, His Holiness scratches his armpit |
lifting a tea cup, pain in my arm - hot liquid, streaming |
| next to me; someone frowns, laughs then cries; dharma |
giggling like a school boy, the Dalai Lama teaches anatta |
| on the door step, eating a pear - juice smiling on my chin |
in sunshine, wiping a teaspoon dry; deep contentment |
| catching rain in buckets - later I drink : the sky |
at 5am, my alarm insists I awaken |
| 12.20pm - exhausted sleeping for 7 generations past, 7 future |
going to sangha sharing, I think of popcorn, movies |
| today, the tomatoes are sweet - red - very tomato |
at dusk, melting into cloud and shadow; my mind |
| like a shell tells about the ocean; stones speak of mountains |
watching the slow beauty of your steps: tears, spring to my eyes |
| trying this, trying that, then in darkness: waiting for the pain to stop |
tiny bolt of lightening in a dark sky: the fantail's eyebrow |
| in despair, I notice the shattered window: still in its frame |
today when the sun set and I noticed; the river turned silver |
| all night, sleet and wild dreaming; at dawn - snow on Jones' Ridge |
your eye meets mine: something crackles back into our bodies |
| in a cold hall - a makeshift palace: the Dalai Lama, a moving thangka |
every night the southern cross my lamp and staff |
| after the Dalai Lama; my Mother - with a twinkle in her eye |
Nana - for 28 years you loved me forever |
| His Holiness; gathering my Mother, my cousin, teacher and me |
lazy like a summer's day thoughts rise and fall; back into emptiness |
| beside a pink camellia, a black tui: shimmering in song |
in flood; the river hungers in its own roaring |
| all night, the mind stirs then sleeps: tormenter and redeemer |
a white heron, wading in the estuary: full of life |
| in falling rain, the earth's juices stream back home |
small beacons in fading light: the gold gorse flowers |
| after rain: the sky - full of the scent of wet soil |
after rain: the sky - leaking out of leaves |
| on the; grey track: gorse smelling like Fiji |
in a small hut, under a boiling sky, I, too shake with thunder |
| sleep brings salvation, by morning I am almost human again |
today, in this small hut - one person, an unbearable crowd |
| the rain stops, but the sky hangs still: a thick grey curtain |
torchlight on the stupa's crystal: the mind begins to know the mind |
| dawn: bleached of all colour, the horizon - an old photograph |
clouds billowing, full of rain and my heart: splits open again |
| for hours, planning an escape, then I realise: no way out |
pawing at the door, finally I let it in: the wild elephant |
| after days of rain; sun and the black pig on the sodden track: sleeping |
laughing and crying, laughing and crying: the sun and moon embrace |
| after days of rain; hot on my eyelids: the sun's kiss |
finally, we become the heart - a roaring red vortex of love |
| shadows fattening into darkness; by 2pm the valley is ice cold |
this morning: mind - warm as honey on hot buttered toast |
| after wongkur, the whole world - a sofa to lie on; by the fire |
the moon through a filigree of gum leaves; is still, the moon |
| mind - a quiet place in the country, then thought! - a fast backfiring car |
muted in the brass bell - reflections: of flame, faces and winter sun |
| tonight the tired moon is half eaten by clouds: my foggy mind |
shining on the shrine today; reflections of all our eyes |
| tonight, near the retreat's end - smoky cloud around a swollen moon |
at the Sadhana reading, sharp grey ears of the cat: listening |
| Tarchin; a 1,000 cubic litres of wisdom, daily from the source |
at dusk, tired clouds carry heavy cargo into the night |
| first trip to town: face blurring, the car moves like a rocket |
for three months nothing but rain, inside and out: my winter monsoon |