A thought on poetry

The old bards of Europe were honored among the greatest men in the land. Hafiz and Rumi were looked at as holy men in the Middle East of old. Zen masters like Osho, and Ryokan were known far and wide across the land for their wit and verses.

Why have we lost respect for our poets? Where has the love of poetry gone? Is the world too fast paced for people these days so that they can’t pick up a verse and relish how it makes them feel? Has all verse been relegated to musical stanzas, mindless Pop repetitions, and sleazy rap lyrics?

What happened to the metaphysical poets?

Where are the bards of old, and how can we get them back into our lives?

A verse.

Bard of old
Lift my soul with your song
Speak the story told
And carry me along

To the river of the euphoric
To the pond of melancholy
To the mountains of time
And to the hills of rhyme

Take my spirit,
And lift it high;
With a verse of kings,
Of love’s passion nigh

Return to your native shore,
For life has become a bore
Without your words and heart.
Without your example, we can’t start

To live now
In the joy of God
In the vision of angels
In the holy synod

Come back to us
Return to us
Harken unto the land
Return to the Isle of Man

Or to Tinturn Abbey,
A la Paris,
Or to the field of Mars,
Ancient Greece,

With Orphic song,
Lead us along
To a place we belong

ponderous polyps

i feel restricted as of late.

something holding me down. something like an idea, or an aphorism that wont leave me alone.

freedom flow has been halted. maybe it’s the medication.

what

is

it

?

beyond reasoning comes enlightenment. how can we figure ourselves out with our own selves. its like doing brain surgery on yourself. cant be done. i’m writing here to release something. i’m too busy to be busy. spin the globe, and see where to travel. i have a friend who is going to Spain for a year to study abroad. jealous. used to love her.

love fleeting,

never meeting,

me at this junction.

a sort of function,

love lost long before it was gained.

feeling tired. feeling strained.

back to youth,

innocence, uncouth!

Alas! never to love.

from on high, or from above!

we are spirits,

not simple beasts.

why do we fear it?

life is not a treat.

its a task that is given.

get busy dyin, or livin

turn those eyes on me again.

let me feel your presence.

hold my hand.

hold my heart.

don’t move to fast.

don’t move to slow.

this rhyme is not even cogent.

flying off on a tangent

where did Thoreau get inspiration

Goethe, his babbles of genius?

staunch brain, seething like a gelatinous ooze.

oozing out into space.

this is not even random,

but rather a flow of thought

that

never

stops

never

ever

stops.

Some Kind of Peace

It’s something. I cant explain it in words really, but I want to try. It’s like a peace that flows into your heart from within your heart. Something like an untapped energy from the godhead. It’s like the universe speaking through you, using words that you don’t even know. Some angelic language that can only be expressed by feelings. Feelings are the base; perception tinges it. Be the mirror. Reflect the openness of god, the universe, and being. A reflection just shows what is reflected. It doesn’t add anything else into the mix. It’s like letting god flow through your veins, chanting mantras, holding a mudra in your hands, and feeling the presence. This is prayer, and meditation is the highest form of prayer. Meditate on the nature of god, and lose yourself in the being that is in control. Control of what, I am not sure, but something right? There is just “something” it’s some kind of inner peace I feel when I sit in silent contemplation. Feelings meld together into a blissful awareness, and envelop you in something so grand, that we cant even begin to open our eyes to it in this human form. It is divine. It is something akin to the formation of the universe, reaching back into beginningless time, and forward into eternity. Moving mountains with the faith of a mustard seed, while sitting with the Buddha in zazen. Seeing the morning star, and an instantaneous awakening takes root in your being. Listening to Vedic chanting, the Brahmins in their austerities don’t come close to it. it doesn’t come from subjugation of anything. You don’t /attain/ anything. It has been /retained/ in your being since the universe was new. It’s a realization of the forces that make up space and time. The one who knows is you, and when the pebble hits the bamboo stick we bow down to our master. The master who has taught us the way. They taught us to train our mind. Recondition ourselves into a being of peace, love, compassion, and harmony with all things. You can never step into the same river twice, but when we cross the sacred Ganges we throw out the dharma. Diamond, Lotus, Surangama, Heart, Rig, Gita, Tao Te Ching. This isn’t some eastern trip. It’s the human condition viewed from a different angle. It’s the thought that we are originally perfect, but have fallen in the mud; dirty broken bones and all, we have to get back up, and stay on the path. The rope coiled at night looks like a viper to the unenlightened mind, but the enlightened picks up the rope, and the viper is charmed. It’s some kind of peace that lets you see the truth. The truth of existence. The truth of time, space, and being. The truth of god, and jesus, and the christian masters. The desert fathers and mothers. Rumi and Hafiz. All the way down into some expression of greatness that lies within you, waiting to come out in glorious song.

It’s some kind of peace, that is within you. Take it, and make it yours.

Written in a Winter Reverie

Snow, jazz, and poetic mode of thought. Hastily written out as I think of something better to say. Why yes, I am a bit mad today, but at the same time, there is a serenity in watching the snow fall against the old maple. Something in hearing Coltrane coming out of the speakers softly; it all melds together to form a certain /reverie/. Something like a 1950s jazz ensemble would play in NYC on a snowy night when there were three people in the bar drinking gin & tonic. Bass man with his instrument crooked, pointed at the floor thumbing away, callus on his hand so big you can see it from the bar. Coltrane on sax, like Dr. Sax lost in the woods of something deep. a /reverie/. Piano man softly, deftly tickling the keys of real ivory, “cause this ain’t no imitation jack, its real jazz.” As I walk into the bar I see a woman in red getting ready to sing. She looks kind of haggard; kind of like she is coming off a binge of some sort of myopic drug scheme. She takes a breath, and belts away; her voice smooth like her caramel skin; sweet like bubble gum kisses, and fragrant like chanel No. 5 the day after it was worn.

piano thinks of ending the song, but sax keeps going, softly into a reverie.

peace, love, hope.

peace, love hope; the saying that is said around my house.

we have been through so much, but we still continue to hope.

turn on that love spicket. let it flow like an underground river with no source.

let it flow freely like lava crashing into the sea.

like an iceberg that is so heavy that it sinks back into the immensity of the sea.

let your peace flow openly; for all to share.

when we sit zazen meditation, the buddhas of the ten directions call out to us, and we enter the pure land of bliss.

altruism!

Compassion!

searching for the thrill of it. it’s real, i know that.

jesus called it the peace that passes all understanding.

the hindus call it brahma.

muslims, allah.

that is peace. a new earth for all based on this peace. a new earth built on the principle of solidarity with your fellows.

peace is understanding that we are different, yet equal.

not separate though. we are one whether you know it or not.

jaladdin rumi dancing the dervish dance, drunk on wine, and madly spinning into oblivion.

Emerson in his study penning Self Reliance…did they know they were changing the make up of the world?

the Buddha touching the earth in mudra form, and the earth quakes. Mount Sumeru quivers for the first time in innumerable kalpas.

Mohammed on the mount receiving his vision. a vision of peace.

All these people touching the infinite peace that is the universe. we can touch too. I have many times.

it’s like looking at the sun; so blinding that it hurts, but you don’t dare look away.

this is peace.

what is hope?

hope is faith. faith in people, faith in time, faith in love.

hope is a wish, an intention.

intention is what powers the cosmos.

the big bang is the effect of the intention to play hide and seek with god.

hope is freedom. hope is blind, and trusting. vulnerability, and wearing your heart on your sleeve.

the heart may be pricked now and then. the blood may flow, but our hope never dies.

the wounds make us stronger.

a deeper trust in people is the key. why not trust? why not be an idealist?

peace, love, hope.

live in these words and concepts. let them permeate your being.

let love in.

Winter storm warning

winter storm rolling in, blowing snow, rain sleet.

my stream of consciousness flows like this storm; raging at the windows, trying to blow down trees.

winter, compared to the old man, is more like an english gentleman;, dapper, clean cut, debonair.

who knows what the storm will bring with it.

hunkered down with a new can of coffee, and many many books.

Dostoevsky, Bronte, Shakespeare; endless flow of words that blows in one ear and out the other.

but what does it leave /behind/?

something like a vague sense of accomplishment. like reading Kerouac; living my past life over again.

winter storm brings the chance to read Jack London. always caught in a snow storm, making a fire, and relying on nature as she is trying to kill you.

i guess this is something literary. forms of writings play in my head…pointing in different directions.

common thread is the feelings.

humiliated and insulted; that’s you and me, and everyone around us. that’s Dostoevsky. Tolstoy is more about redemption, but Dostoevsky plays with the strings of your heart; like a guitar tuned too tight…something has to give.

winter storms bring solitude.

Thoreau there at Walden. writing writing writing.Simplify simplify simplify!!! catching pickerel and reading the vedas. A  Brahmin himself, an old buddha.Too bad he never got to meet Jeladdin Rumi.

kindred souls lost through time.

time is the great divider. is it fixed? arbitrary?

who cares. i live outside of time. time is how long it takes to put thoughts to paper; a ramble through the woods, or even a cup of coffee; growing vast is the past, but little do we know when it will collapse.

this storm brings me inward.

making giant snowmen at great grandma Sarah’s. Ugg the dog, noislessly looking on while we hunt for channels on the old antenna laden tv.

winter storms evoke memories of past winter storms.

storm away my friend, as i’m cozy here. cat, tea, books, fire.

finding a flow again after so long. this is the moral.

just start writing, and it will come to you.

everyone can write, but few do.

we all want to be heard, but who do we want to listen?

the world? loved ones? strangers?

like Ryokan the zen monk. Last year a simple monk; this year, no change.

sit on that cushion. zazen your thoughts away to the pure land of the tathagatas, all in a winter storm.

if you are stuck inside, you may as well be productive. how about finding god in your spare time?

that’s when we find him. when we look. but he’s hiding. you are god hiding from yourself. this is the dance of the universe.

i warned you that there would be rambles.

winter storm rambles through the mind. leaving a fine powder on my consciousness.

what will you do during the storm. hopefully not just watch tv. c’mon.

take a journey without leaving your chambers!

this winter storm will envelop me, my mind, and the universe.

battle yourself, and see who wins.

ego, vs. self. that’s true self. soul. karma. Buddha nature.

now i’m going to put my pen down, and slowly walk away from this exploding message…

boom.

stray cat blues

Hey Mr. Stray. I’ve been in your shoes.

I’m not going to call you a stray though. where are you stray from? we are all strays on earth aren’t we. lets not talk about it.

if you need a place to call home, take off your coat. stay a while eh?

we can listen to jazz records, and drink chai tea.

i’ll give you some food anytime you want.

i’ve been know to take in wayward souls. i was, and am one myself.

connection/its our musical souls.

it’s that wanderlust that we feel. but i have been sitting for a while in one place.

do you want to settle down for a bit? catch your bearings?

it can be daunting to sit in one place when your mind is traveling through the universe.

what do think is the reason we nest?

i know you, i’ve seen you before.

out of the corner of my eye, but never in focus.

/elusive/abstruse/somewhatobstructed, like a mote in my eye.

it seems you show up when i want to be a stray again. are you that stray in me?

sorry, i said i wouldnt use that term to denote you. how about we just say, wanderer.

/i like that better eh?/

if you dont like jazz, if youre not a hepcat, we can listen to anything you like.

we can sit zazen, i know all you cats are zen masters in disguise.

where were you born? here maybe? we were all born /here/ weren’t we?

don’t slink away.

don’t look at me with those eyes. turn and face me. that’s all i ask.

ah, so you have yellow eyes; mine are blue.

ah, so you are fluffy; i have a beard.

whoops, scared you.

you ran away.

come back. please?

you’ve got the stray cat blues. wandering from field to field, never knowing where you’ll rest your head.

well…

you have a home here, if you like.

can’t promise you the world, but at least some love.

that’s what we are all looking for anyways.

right? or is it just me?

american prayer

this brings me to america.

dysfunctional, dystopian (spellcheck wanted me to change that word to Utopian_but we are certainly not that!)

maybe not utopian, but the best damn it. i love my country. not some flag waving fortunate son; no, more like a relationship with the ideal.

ideal america. dont we wish it for all? i do.

but here is the point. we are perfectly perfectable. we have a perfect potential.

are we living up to it?

no, we are living in fear.

fear of war, violence, guns, street wars over star wars. cops killing or be killed.

america the beautiful. it is that. have you been from sea to shining sea? so grand, the immensity.

we are learning the hard way, the american way.

put god, brahma, the buddha, jesus, allah, and all of them into a mystery cake. see which one you get.

it matters, but we are all praying to one god. you realize this yes?

we pray for america. i do.

may all beings be blessed.

may all beings have peace.

may all beings be free from suffering.

the bodhisattva vows of peace.

american bodhisattva/dharma bum.

lastwords…..

america the beautiful is the example. let us be blessed, prosperous in love, but not money. let us be compassionate to all indiscriminately. minimalists in greed. masters of the universe. lovers, no hate.

dont hate….meditate!

I love my america, but with no attachment. like a good buddhist.

may god bless us

have some more

freedom overflowing. like marley, the singer not the baby or maybe the baby.

love, family, freedom of the mind.

sitting in this shell, touching the eternal, feet firmly planted on the ground.

head in the clouds though; stir it up. cmon baby. i wonder what they will say…

he’s long gone. he’ went cuckoo. aww oh well.. it was bound to happen.

nope. not this time. i have touched a piece of freedom. satori like alan talks about.

There once was a man who said ‘damn, it certainly seems that I am, a creature that moves, in determinate grooves, I’m not even a bus, I’m a tram!

that’s alan watts for you.

he touched freedom. lived in it. like kerouac but stuck in this human body.

troubles, problems, yes; for all of us. let’s love each other, and forget about them okay?

the problems i mean, not the world. red’s rambles. i love this. freedom.

freedom of ’76. those hepcats knew what was up. not much older than me, and forming a new country. America and democracy. freedom for all.  it’s true.

28 yrs old. alive again.

i’ve died a few times, but we wont go into that.

life is eternal, and we are one being in god. one love. one heart.

so i guess it is like marley. rasta man who shunned the establishment while living within it.

this is the way we live. we examine the mind with the mind. it’s like trying to bite your own teeth. doesnt work.

live outside. freedom. love. acceptance. one love, again the song plays.

just me writing out anxiety attacks. in my room. but is it anxiety? or satori? i hope i don’t scare people. ive been known to be a little odd. i just live outside, in freedom.

english major, for a decade. knew it all along, but had to find it many times.

it’s like when you lose your glasses, but they are on top of your head the whole time.

examine things. all is well if you want it to be. today has been an auspicious day.

the inner child finds comfort with its family.

brother though. relationship strained. i wronged him many times. he saw me at my worst, but he loves me still.

thats all i can ask for.

so much stress on people. let it go. own it. get rid of it. walk in freedom, in god, in the universe.

yet another ramble, or is it rabble>?

I say! (bob again)

a rabble of rambling.

father, mother, sister, sister, brother.

if you are still with me, this is cogent. this is my train of thought. try to follow, and see the thread.

love is the thread. family, and freedom within the system.

kerouac would be proud, do you know who that is?

ryokan living like a dharma bum; living in a hut and finding enlightenment one day at a time. we are reborn everyday; reborn to life for a reason. this is my reason. i can put it onto paper; into words you may understand easily, but then there is no mystery.

humans are suckers for mystery, or so ive been told.

hey, my anxiety is gone. love love love. freedom for all, like tich naht hanh talks about.

hey mom… remember? “when we hear the bell, we say i have arrived. i am home.”

a charmed existence is the one i live. maybe brahma in the vedas was me. arjuna taking the whole gita to understand krishna’s message. arjuna is us. the message is to be free. it’s there for the taking, or better yet, its already there, you dont have to even pick it up. it just is.

zen baby. suzuki roshi and zazen in san fran. 60’s transcendentalists. thoreau was better than emerson. emerson was stuck in form. thoreau was free from form. the old buddha he was. living by the pond, fishing for pickerel his borther dead from a cut while shaving. lockjaw. deadly in the 1820s.

what are my influences?

i’m a student of humanity. a student of earth, and the surrounding cosmos. a student of literature. poetry. the greats; can’t name them all.

is it cant? sounds like it. doesnt it.

heres the ending….philosopher like proust finding freedom flailing in the forest. alittlealliteration.

red’s freedom rambles

shaking,

nervous,

mapping anxiety attacks, kerouac on the speaker bopping about the history of bop in the subterranean. eve redwater rambles in the river speaking in rhyme to me

fine is a dime when you have the time,

but we don’t have time baby, all we have is forever.

don’t look at the screen, watch my hands while they ramble. brain rambling in time while the Tathagata yokes the yoke perfectly. the universe is saved when Jesus and God merge into the holy spirit. merging into your divinity, and rambling through time into trust in his ideal for you.

a rhyme in time saves nine, but that’s not how it goes. i’ve never felt this free. rambling trembling thumb twitching on the keys.

no drugs, booze, or anything. just high on poetry. high on god. high on life. its true; when Tathagatas talk the earth trembles. devas rejoice, and we get a little closer to reality.

i feel like i’m from the beat generation, high on prescribed benzos, listening to jazz, and drinking a beer with neal cassady. was i there at that time? is this too experimental? no editing. typos allowed, no reason, but art for arts, ce la vie

je suis tim cooper. cest ma mere, pere, mon cher, et moi

tres bien? oui.

moi accent est horrible!

call me red from now on. red rambles. sorry eve, i stole part of your name. your words, song, heart for the art moved me. why do i think of her now. never heard her voice, but the words were wordsworthian. new word.

ginsburg, and ram dass with baba, while ajahn chah sits with the one who knows. jack and allan debating zen in the corner without words.

ill stop now, but this is me from now on.

the name of the blog is now red’s freedom rambles.