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
|
by Ruth Pink