| A Cottage by the Sea |
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 Our true nature is stillness,
The Source from which we come. . . . . The deep listening of pure contemplation Is the path to stillness. All words disappear into It, And all creation awakens to the delight of Just Being. —Thomas Keating, “Stillness”  Priceless Gifts
By Anna Swir (1909 - 1984) English version by Czeslaw Milosz and Leonard Nathan www.Poetry-Chaikhana.com An empty day without events. And that is why it grew immense as space. And suddenly happiness of being entered me. I heard in my heartbeat the birth of time and each instant of life one after the other came rushing in like priceless gifts. In this passing moment
By Hogen Bays (Contemporary) posted in www.poetry-chaikhana.com "In the presence of Sangha, in the light of Dharma, in oneness with Buddha -- may my path to complete enlightenment benefit everyone!" In this passing moment karma ripens and all things come to be. I vow to choose what is: If there is cost, I choose to pay. If there is need, I choose to give. If there is pain, I choose to feel. If there is sorrow, I choose to grieve. When burning -- I choose heat. When calm -- I choose peace. When starving -- I choose hunger. When happy -- I choose joy. Whom I encounter, I choose to meet. What I shoulder, I choose to bear. When it is my death, I choose to die. Where this takes me, I choose to go. Being with what is -- I respond to what is. This life is as real as a dream; the one who knows it cannot be found; and, truth is not a thing -- Therefore I vow to choose THIS dharma entrance gate! May all Buddhas and Wise Ones help me live this vow.  May you be for us a moon of joy and happiness.
Let the young become strong and the grown man maintain his strength, the pregnant woman be delivered and the woman who has given birth suckle her child. Let the stranger come to the end of his journey and those who remain at home dwell safely in their houses. Let the flocks that go to feed in the pastures return happily. May you be a moon of harvest and of calves. May you be a moon of restoration and of good health. Ethiopian Prayer  I stand on the edge of myself and wonder where is home? Oh, where is the place where beauty will last? When will I be safe? And where? My tourist heart is wearing me out. I am so tired of seeking for treasures that tarnish. How much longer, Lord? Oh, which way is home? M luggage is heavy. It is weighing me down. I am hungry for the holy ground of home. Then suddenly, overpowering me with the truth, A voice within me gentles me, and says: There is a power in you, a truth in you That has not yet been tapped. You are blinded with a blindness that is deep For you’ve not loved the pilgrim in you yet. There is a road that runs straight through your heart. Walk on it. To be a pilgrim means to be on the move, slowly, To notice your luggage becoming lighter To be seeking for treasures that do not rust To be comfortable with your heart’s questions To be moving toward the holy ground of home With empty hands and bare feet. And yet, you cannot reach that home Until you’ve loved the pilgrim in you. One must be comfortable with pilgrimhood Before one’s feet can touch the homeland. Do you want to go home? There’s a road that runs straight through your heart. Walk on it. Macrina Wiederkehr  Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk, Blowing like a leaf in green shadow. Down the ravine behind the empty house, The cowbells follow one another Into the distances of the afternoon. To my right, In a field of sunlight between two pines, The droppings of last year’s horses Blaze up into golden stones. I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on. A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home. I have wasted my life.  Love after Love, by Derek Walcott (in ivan@poetry-chaikhana.com)
The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other’s welcome, and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf, the photographs, the desperate notes, peel your own image from the mirror. Sit. Feast on your life.  The Way It Is
There’s a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn’t change. People wonder about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread. But it is hard for others to see. While you hold it you can’t get lost. Tragedies happen; people get hurt or die; and you suffer and get old. Nothing you do can stop time’s unfolding. You don’t ever let go of the thread. William Stafford (1914-1993)  The beauty of the trees The softness of the air The fragrance of the grass Speaks to me. The summit of the mountain The thunder of the sky The rhythm of the sea Speaks to me And my heart soars.  Earth’s crammed with heaven,
and every common bush afire with God; but only he who sees takes off his shoes, the rest sit around it and pluck blackberries. Elizabeth Barrett Browning |
