Enough

I think it is enough,

at times,

to go without knowing

where the end is,

what the beginning - 

so long ago.

Perhaps you have friends

who can whisper

such things

in your ear,

hear little bits of 

messages

in the laughter of children

But mostly we just proceed ahead,

not remembering

how it all started,

where it is leading,

not sure

if we are the waiting animal

or the animal's passing

shadow 

in the grass.

Dorothy Walters

Photo:  Peter Bowers 

The Bright Core of Failure (or.. My Heart is a Saucepan)

Sometimes you enter the heart.  Sometimes

you're born from the soul.  Sometimes you

weep a song of separation:  all the same

glory.  You live in beautiful forms and

you're the energy that breaks images.  All 

light, neither this nor that.  Human beings

go places on foot; angels, with wings.  Even

if they find nothing but ruins and failure,

you're the bright core of that.  When angels

and humans are free of feet and wings, they'll

understand that you are that lack, pure

absence.  You're in my eyes like a taste of 

wine that blocks my understanding.  That

ignorance glorifies.  You talk and feel in

the talking:  kingdom, finances, fire, smoke,

the senses, incense:  all are your favourites! 

A ship, Noah, blessings, luck, troubles that 

pull us unknowingly toward treasure:  look,

he's being dragged away from his friends! 

Nobody will see him anymore.  This is your

story.  I ask you, "Should I talk to this one?

Is he being drawn to me?"  Silence.  That too.  

What is desire? What is it! Don't laugh, my

soul.  Show me the way through this desiring.

All the  world loves you, but you are nowhere

to be found.  Hidden and completely obvious.

You are the soul! You boil me down in a 

saucepan, then ask why I'm spilling out.  Is

it time for patience?  Your bright being.  My

heart is a saucepan.  This writing, the record

of being torn apart in your fire, as aloe

wood most becomes itself when burning up.

Enough talk about burning!  Everything, even

the end of this poem, is a taste of your glory.

Rumi

The True Person

The true person is 

Not anyone in particular; 

But, like the deep blue colour

of the limitless sky,

It is everyone, everywhere in the world.

Dogen

Mother, Silence

Sometimes when life is difficult,

I curl up in my Mother's lap 

and drink her ever-present love

that never has required

a single thing to change.

And when my life requires courage,

or I don't know what to say

or how to be, 

I go to her and

listen with my heart.

My Mother birthed the world

and everything that's in it.

Her wisdom excludes nothing; 

and yet she rushes to my side

if I but beckon her.

What a pure, abiding presence

is my Mother, Silence.  

Dorothy Hunt

photo:  Peter Bowers

Love is...

Love is what gives joy to creatures.

Love is what provides all sorts of happiness.

We were not born from women; love gave birth to us.

A hundred blessings and praises to our mothers ! 

Rumi 

photo:  Peter Bowers