to be decided

I just thought, what the hell, something to see, something to do.

To wait so long.

To wait so long.

To plant seeds one by one.

To watch colors crawl up stems,

towards the sun.

You can’t rip the skin off a snake, so wait.

To live a life in slowness and sound.

Built on roots, tunnels deep underground,

I step so gently here.

Economy of mind, where thoughts can’t play.

Slow cooked soup, why it can take all day.

Will convictions settle out this may.

The soul of an artist can fade this way.

Do you have the patience to wait ‘til your mud settles and the water is clear? Can you remain unmoving ‘til the right action arises by itself? The master doesn’t seek fulfillment. Not seeking, not expecting, she is present and can welcome all things.
Tao Te Ching

Bugs In a Bowl


Han Shan, that great and crazy, wonder-filled Chinese poet of a thousand years ago, said:

We’re just like bugs in a bowl. All day going around never leaving their bowl.

I say, That’s right! Every day climbing up
the steep sides, sliding back.

Over and over again. Around and around.
Up and back down.

Sit in the bottom of the bowl, head in your hands,
cry, moan, feel sorry for yourself.

Or. Look around. See your fellow bugs.
Walk around.

Say, Hey, how you doin’?
Say, Nice Bowl!

By David Budbill
From Moment to Moment: Poems of a Mountain Recluse
sweet sweet sleep

Can I detach myself from this moment, this long stringy sinewy last thought, and empty my head as I brush my teeth, and lie in bed, and close my eyes, and drift off like all the other animals in the world, blissful in noncoherency, in sweet sweet sleep.