Good Friday Meditation

Morning moves toward noon, a dim moon floats above the hill
It is a skull– In my head as in the eaves doves moan
Mondial irises bloom the color of shrouds

Under a cold sky the cedar trees shutter

The low groan the dog utters is from the chilly rain–
It has always been as the papers say, “Man found murdered
Near Saint Mary’s church” so much blood and pain, too little change.

 

 

Rayn Roberts 2017

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Mystery

Sometime before the land turned away from light

The wind in the wild mustard slowed
The sun, being where is always is, the moon too
Twilight and moonrise were in me.

Something small and quick sprang and ran.
The long grass bent as I watched the urge to chase
Corner and kill rise and fall inside me.

A hawk tucked wings, stooped from a great height
Was high in the air again, a ground squirrel in its claws–
The life of a large snake touched me, I watched

From grass to rock, sand on the road to sage
I heard the dry hiss where a lizard whipped out.
The serpent, licking the air with a pronged tongue

Coiled under a cactus tree, sang a warning–
This was no tree of knowledge, the rattler
Untouched by good or evil, is pure, perfectly pure.

I closed my eyes, sound and light opened the third eye
I saw a human face, half gleaming reptilian green
Half clear compassionate blue– There were no words,

No thought, I moved forward and became that face.

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How Mind Moves

The splash of water on rocks

at the high end

vibrations move, ripple the surface
but not the sweet calm
a center of lotus and lily pads
like a quiet deep of sea —
But water arrives by many ways
to be a pond: fed by mountain-top rain
seeping to a circle of stone
where deer drink
turtles sun and dream white and gold
orange and black koi
rising and falling like ideas
frogs in a daze
noon only a notion here, and slowly
at low end, the water flows out
mind twisting through pines
senses thought concept reason time
enter the high end noisy waves

leave the low, fulfillment

running to the sea

cropped-cropped-dsc0045111 Photo by Tom Gable Nature Photographer

Poets & Writers

A Forest Monk Speaks

If you find yourself in a Buddhist temple
You are not in a Buddhist temple.

Though you pray and chant for yourself
Night and day, you remain in Hell.

Living and dying, are the two not one
Happening at the same time?

A cobra lifts its head in your path.
Teach it to hiss, not bite.  It is you.

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Poem first appeared in “The Fires of Spring” by Rayn Roberts

Forest Monks

The Monk & The Cobra Parable

download-1  kammatthana_yantra