Poetry, anyone?

The Lillith Oracles

The Second Translation: The Cycle
And you may see the mystery
of Lillith shut within the tree
Is that the Old Ones put her there
no food scant light and little air

In hopes that she a spirit bright
might die and fall to dust one night
And closed her in with daub and wattle
thinking her bright soul to throttle

For in a cycle out of time
did Lillith rage and enter mind
Of woman angry woman strong
the lifeblood of the Amazon

Who slaked her lust then gelded men
& instilled worship of her ken
With priestesses that prophesied
& men enslaved & woman-pride

And took the babies that were male
& burned them live in fires of Bel
When men were nought but for the lust
and women brought them to the dust

And to the ashes of the pyres
except poor slaves enchained as sires
Imprisoned them and used them bitter
and led them know the woman fitter

To be the One and Only One
and woman great and man anon
Inanna who was goddess/woman
and asked for help to rid the vermin

From a tree in her own yard
might well have known in her hard heart
And using woman's wisdom subtle
set spell on man his mind to muddle

Gilgamesh who wished to please
released the female god Hubris
And following Inanna's quest
freed Lillith serpent and bird/beast

And Lillith angry from her trap
and mad with anguish made a map
Of stars that showed the cycle sad
Of woman-all-good & man-all-bad

But cycles must be balanc-ed
by laws of Nammu still unread
So cycle after Lillith's own
Has left all womankind to moan

Until a cycle pure & sweet
of Equal Knowing can repeat
The wisdom of the All & All:
"Pride riseth high before a fall."

(Oracle of the Nammu:)
Strive for the cycle of the Phi
Where both the line and circle be
For both the circle and the line
Create life's spiral for all time.
 
Emptiness....
...a peaceful void.
Brings no rapture of a song destroyed.
All it takes...
A single note when struck in passion
Will bring the hope.
The music comes from above,
Takes the void....
...fills with love.

The void is filled, no heart is seen.
The music comes as too much for me.
Now the songs will overflow
Drowning out a single call
To plant a love and let it grow
And topple over silent walls.
From the chaos of discordant songs
Comes the words for the poetry.
When the chords come out all wrong
It drives on mad...
...to sit and think...
...and know the truth...
...you will not see.

Open Up!
Now what you see in me:
Destroyed a wall built in pain
To hold in the harmony
That binds the soul from the endless plane.

-by me
 
Ah, thank you Vajradhara! :) I love having a captive audience to post my silly surrealist drivel for. :D

The Show That Can't Be Cancelled, Happily
9/2/01

You know, I've been pouring over these uniforms
lately, finding colloquialisms of distinction
without which the borders, I think,
would be undefined. Knowledge blows away
and the curtains close over the face of nature,
self-surgeoned. You hadn't believed you were
the actor, had you? Come now. Wake up
in the scratch-mixture of the raw materials.

Ah, you can never stop eating. Shake your head.
Go on, and on and on. You know it,
but try to shrug responsibility into
a comforatable shoulder harness.
It doesn't fit you!
Reach up into the never,
expand your ether nerves
as always.
 
Mo' drivel. ;)

Drops In the Bucket
9/5/01

Admit it. You're astounded at all the puzzles that put
into the fixture, and the brevity of the contents come
sweeping out in magnified folds. Cognitive patterns apprehended
by or inside the brain; how you perceive it is determined
by the repeating moments of your youth. Living constantly,
breaking to the building point, crying at the interminable bliss
of prayers receding

Nevermind the moon,
blur beyond an individual or group
and get with the whole movie.

Being this one rolling acorn on the ground, it's
hard to lose sight of my field of vision. Aspire to the
tree sounds like wise words, but I've buckled myself in
for the long ride. The barrows wind down into the gallow
valley. The horseman is infamous among the locals, and they
fear him, carry their hands in towards their chests and
breathe out long prayers, pulling protection against the wheezing
of age, against climate change. A shame.
 
I am enjoying everyone's selections. Insight, indeed!

A few originals, although I don't think they match the caliber of the others posted here. But if it's insight you want ... :)

====================

Giggly boy,
You make my heart glad.

I know someday you won't
Think I'm amazing
Or endlessly amusing
Or maybe even worth talking to.
You might even hate me.

But I'll remember
How you laughed applesauce at me across the table,
How I stayed up all night with you while you cried,
How you splashed me from the bath tub
And wrapped your arms around me at bedtime,
Sighing the day away,
Your fingers smelling curiously
Like buttered toast.


===========================


In my early days
I asked questions earnestly
Who am I?
What should I do?
What does it all mean?
As if the answer meant life or death.

Now I know
That asking is the journey
And death the answer.

I will take my time.

==============================



They dance
under the sweltering sun
For release, for connection, into the sky.
Shedding the vestiges of their corporeal forms from their shoulders
Like a temporal cloak, irrelevant now.
Becoming
Streaks of color and pinpoint brightness
Merging into the earth.

They are here -- familiar, almost visible.
I can feel them, smell them.
They become visceral in the swaying bodies
Wrapping the dancers in ecstasy, strength, sorrow, and hope.
Transferring their energy into the dancers' sweat
Mounting their souls ...
All that is left is a smear of color
Dribbled along the horizon.

They are here.
They are always here.
But we
are not always looking.

===============================
 
Advice from Me to Myself

Listen up, old bad-karma Patrul,
You dweller-in-distraction.

For ages now you've been
Beguiled, entranced, and fooled by appearances.
Are you aware of that? Are you?
Right this very instant, when you're
Under the spell of mistaken perception
You've got to watch out.
Don't let yourself get carried away by this fake and empty life.

Your mind is spinning around
About carrying out a lot of useless projects:
It's a waste! Give it up!
Thinking about the hundred plans you want to accomplish,
With never enough time to finish them,
Just weighs down your mind.

You're completely distracted
By all these projects, which never come to an end,
But keep spreading out more, like ripples in water.
Don't be a fool: for once, just sit tight.

Listening to the teachings—you've already heard hundreds of teachings,
But when you haven't grasped the meaning of even one teaching,
What's the point of more listening?

Reflecting on the teachings—even though you've listened,
If the teachings aren't coming to mind when needed,
What's the point of more reflection? None.

Meditating according to the teachings—
If your meditation practice still isn't curing
The obscuring states of mind—forget about it!

You've added up just how many mantras you've done—
But you aren't accomplishing the kyerim visualizatiion.
You may get the forms of deities nice and clear—
But you're not putting an end to subject and object.
You may tame what appear to be evil spirits and ghosts,
But you're not training the stream of your own mind.

Your four fine sessions of sadhana practice,
So meticulously arranged—
Forget about them.

When you're in a good mood,
Your practice seems to have lots of clarity—
But you just can't relax into it.
When you're depressed,
Your practice is stable enough
But there's no brilliance to it.
As for awareness,
You try to force yourself into a rigpa-like state,
As if stabbing a stake into a target!

When those yogic positions and gazes keep your mind stable
Only by keeping mind tethered—
Forget about them!

Giving high-sounding lectures
Doesn't do your mind-stream any good.
The path of analytical reasoning is precise and acute—
But it's just more delusion, good for nothing goat-****.
The oral instructions are very profound
But not if you don't put them into practice.

Reading over and over those dharma texts
That just occupy your mind and make your eyes sore—
Forget about it!

You beat your little damaru drum—ting, ting—
And your audience thinks it's charming to hear.
You're reciting words about offering up your body,
But you still haven't stopped holding it dear.
You're making your little cymbals go -cling, cling—
Without keeping the ultimate purpose in mind.

All this dharma-practice equipment
That seems so attractive—
Forget about it!

Right now, those students are all studying so very hard,
But in the end, they can't keep it up.

Today, they seem to get the idea,
But later on, there's not a trace left.
Even if one of them manages to learn a little,
He rarely applies his "learning" to his own conduct.

Those elegant dharma disciplines—
Forget about them!

This year, he really cares about you,
Next year, it's not like that.
At first, he seems modest,
Then he grows exalted and pompous.
The more you nurture and cherish him,
The more distant he grows.

These dear friends
Who show such smiling faces to begin with—
Forget about them!

Her smile seems so full of joy—
But who knows if that's really the case?
One time, it's pure pleasure,
Then it's nine months of mental pain.
It might be fine for a month,
But sooner or later, there's trouble.

People teasing; your mind embroiled—
Your lady-friend—
Forget about her!

These endless rounds of conversation
Are just attachment and aversion—
It's just more goat-****, good for nothing at all.
At the time it seems marvellously entertaining,
But really, you're just spreading around stories about other people's mistakes.
Your audience seems to be listening politely,
But then they grow embarrassed for you.

Useless talk that just makes you thirsty—
Forget about it!

Giving teachings on meditation texts
Without yourself having
Gained actual experience through practice,
Is like reciting a dance-manual out loud
And thinking that's the same as actually dancing.

People may be listening to you with devotion,
But it just isn't the real thing.

Sooner or later, when your own actions
Contradict the teachings, you'll feel ashamed.

Just mouthing the words,
Giving dharma explanations that sound so eloquent—
Forget about it!

When you don't have a text, you long for it;
Then when you've finally gotten it, you hardly look at it.

The number of pages seems few enough,
But it's a bit hard to find time to copy them all.
Even if you copied down all the dharma texts on earth,
You wouldn't be satisfied.

Copying down texts is a waste of time
(Unless you get paid)—
So forget about it!

Today, they're happy as clams—
Tomorrow, they're furious.
With all their black moods and white moods,
People are never satisfied.
Or even if they're nice enough,
They may not come through when you really need them,
Disappointing you even more.

All this politeness, keeping up a
Courteous demeanor—
Forget about it!

Worldly and religious work
Is the province of gentlemen.
Patrul, old boy—that's not for you.

Haven't you noticed what always happens?
An old bull, once you've gone to the trouble of borrowing him for his services,
Seems to have absolutely no desire left in him at all—
(Except to go back to sleep).

Be like that—desireless.

Just sleep, eat, piss, ****.
There's nothing else in life that has to be done.

Don't get involved with other things:
They're not the point.

Keep a low profile,
Sleep.

In the triple universe
When you're lower than your company
You should take the low seat.

Should you happen to be the superior one,
Don't get arrogant.

There's no absolute need to have close friends;
You're better off just keeping to yourself.

When you're without any worldly or religious obligations,
Don't keep on longing to acquire some!

If you let go of everything—
Everything, everything—
That's the real point!

~Patrul Rinpoche
 
I have wrote a few poems over the years. Here is my contribution to this thread. Enjoy!

Just Visiting

I remember sometimes walking
where I've walked before
when the light was different
And the birdsong extra bright.

But it was the people's faces
They were so clear
their souls shone through
the multitudes
were multitudes of stars
The clustered knots of people
constellations in a soulful sky.

I think I must have loved them then
All the people that I met
perhaps I sat for a little while
Perhaps I hummed a tune.
And then got up to walk again
As I have walked before
After having visited
the white and golden pathways
that thread the City of God.
 
These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God today. There is no time for them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst, its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is satisfied, and it satisfies nature, in all moments alike. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with reverted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tiptoe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.

-- Ralph Waldo Emerson
 
I was recently nominated Poet of the Year by the International Society of Poets. (One of several, of course.)

I won't be attending the convention as it would seem I have more important things to attend to but.. I did manage to snag page one of their book (good enough for me) with this poem here:

Dusk.

Gaze falls, unfettered
Dust
Conspires
The raddled strains of time

Dull blackened pace
The sidewalk rolls
Like clouds before his eyes

Alone and killing insects
Tending rubberbands like vines
Old liar sleeps
He only keeps
That which he's left behind

Child's hoard of bluing pennies
Red reoccuring dream
Drones endless
Molds
Regurgitating
Ghost in his machine

Alive.. but never breathing

Awake ...but not quite listening.

~C. Lee
(circa 2000)
 
Corporal Clegg
(as recorded by Pink Floyd)

Corporal Clegg had a wooden leg
He won it in the war, in 1944.
Corporal Clegg had a medal too
In orange, red, and blue
He found it in the zoo.
Dear, dear were they really sad for me?
Dear, dear will they really laugh at me?
Mrs. Clegg, you must be proud of him.
Mrs. Clegg, another drop of gin.
Corporal Clegg umbrella in the rain
He's never been the same
No one is to blame
Corporal Clegg received his medal in a dream
From Her Majesty the queen
His boots were very clean.
Mrs. Clegg, you must be proud of him
Mrs. Clegg, another drop of gin.

~ Waters
 
Diiiiiiing DONG (everybody sing.)

faryal said:
salam,
(read it on the net)

The Last Rainbow Warrior Is Dead

Bitter funerals in silence held
Twelve coffins laid to earth
To dust all human hope to wither
The last rainbow warriors is dead

Ours is the world of tragedy
Ours is the world of grief

For countless,
gray days of dismay
It's been snowing black ashes
upon these devastated lands
Dreadful are the storms
that grind these mountains to sand

Hear the voice of destruction
as it screams through our souls
With the vast storms it walks
Proud destruction in human form
Click to expand...
StealYourFace.gif
 
Re: Advice from Me to Myself

Vajradhara said:
Listen up, old bad-karma Patrul,
You dweller-in-distraction.

For ages now you've been
Beguiled, entranced, and fooled by appearances.
Are you aware of that? Are you?
Right this very instant, when you're
Under the spell of mistaken perception
You've got to watch out.
Don't let yourself get carried away by this fake and empty life.

Your mind is spinning around
About carrying out a lot of useless projects:
It's a waste! Give it up!
Thinking about the hundred plans you want to accomplish,
With never enough time to finish them,
Just weighs down your mind.

You're completely distracted
By all these projects, which never come to an end,
But keep spreading out more, like ripples in water.
Don't be a fool: for once, just sit tight.

Listening to the teachings—you've already heard hundreds of teachings,
But when you haven't grasped the meaning of even one teaching,
What's the point of more listening?

Reflecting on the teachings—even though you've listened,
If the teachings aren't coming to mind when needed,
What's the point of more reflection? None.

Meditating according to the teachings—
If your meditation practice still isn't curing
The obscuring states of mind—forget about it!

You've added up just how many mantras you've done—
But you aren't accomplishing the kyerim visualizatiion.
You may get the forms of deities nice and clear—
But you're not putting an end to subject and object.
You may tame what appear to be evil spirits and ghosts,
But you're not training the stream of your own mind.

Your four fine sessions of sadhana practice,
So meticulously arranged—
Forget about them.

When you're in a good mood,
Your practice seems to have lots of clarity—
But you just can't relax into it.
When you're depressed,
Your practice is stable enough
But there's no brilliance to it.
As for awareness,
You try to force yourself into a rigpa-like state,
As if stabbing a stake into a target!

When those yogic positions and gazes keep your mind stable
Only by keeping mind tethered—
Forget about them!

Giving high-sounding lectures
Doesn't do your mind-stream any good.
The path of analytical reasoning is precise and acute—
But it's just more delusion, good for nothing goat-****.
The oral instructions are very profound
But not if you don't put them into practice.

Reading over and over those dharma texts
That just occupy your mind and make your eyes sore—
Forget about it!

You beat your little damaru drum—ting, ting—
And your audience thinks it's charming to hear.
You're reciting words about offering up your body,
But you still haven't stopped holding it dear.
You're making your little cymbals go -cling, cling—
Without keeping the ultimate purpose in mind.

All this dharma-practice equipment
That seems so attractive—
Forget about it!

Right now, those students are all studying so very hard,
But in the end, they can't keep it up.

Today, they seem to get the idea,
But later on, there's not a trace left.
Even if one of them manages to learn a little,
He rarely applies his "learning" to his own conduct.

Those elegant dharma disciplines—
Forget about them!

This year, he really cares about you,
Next year, it's not like that.
At first, he seems modest,
Then he grows exalted and pompous.
The more you nurture and cherish him,
The more distant he grows.

These dear friends
Who show such smiling faces to begin with—
Forget about them!

Her smile seems so full of joy—
But who knows if that's really the case?
One time, it's pure pleasure,
Then it's nine months of mental pain.
It might be fine for a month,
But sooner or later, there's trouble.

People teasing; your mind embroiled—
Your lady-friend—
Forget about her!

These endless rounds of conversation
Are just attachment and aversion—
It's just more goat-****, good for nothing at all.
At the time it seems marvellously entertaining,
But really, you're just spreading around stories about other people's mistakes.
Your audience seems to be listening politely,
But then they grow embarrassed for you.

Useless talk that just makes you thirsty—
Forget about it!

Giving teachings on meditation texts
Without yourself having
Gained actual experience through practice,
Is like reciting a dance-manual out loud
And thinking that's the same as actually dancing.

People may be listening to you with devotion,
But it just isn't the real thing.

Sooner or later, when your own actions
Contradict the teachings, you'll feel ashamed.

Just mouthing the words,
Giving dharma explanations that sound so eloquent—
Forget about it!

When you don't have a text, you long for it;
Then when you've finally gotten it, you hardly look at it.

The number of pages seems few enough,
But it's a bit hard to find time to copy them all.
Even if you copied down all the dharma texts on earth,
You wouldn't be satisfied.

Copying down texts is a waste of time
(Unless you get paid)—
So forget about it!

Today, they're happy as clams—
Tomorrow, they're furious.
With all their black moods and white moods,
People are never satisfied.
Or even if they're nice enough,
They may not come through when you really need them,
Disappointing you even more.

All this politeness, keeping up a
Courteous demeanor—
Forget about it!

Worldly and religious work
Is the province of gentlemen.
Patrul, old boy—that's not for you.

Haven't you noticed what always happens?
An old bull, once you've gone to the trouble of borrowing him for his services,
Seems to have absolutely no desire left in him at all—
(Except to go back to sleep).

Be like that—desireless.

Just sleep, eat, piss, ****.
There's nothing else in life that has to be done.

Don't get involved with other things:
They're not the point.

Keep a low profile,
Sleep.

In the triple universe
When you're lower than your company
You should take the low seat.

Should you happen to be the superior one,
Don't get arrogant.

There's no absolute need to have close friends;
You're better off just keeping to yourself.

When you're without any worldly or religious obligations,
Don't keep on longing to acquire some!

If you let go of everything—
Everything, everything—
That's the real point!

~Patrul Rinpoche
Click to expand...
This rang so true with my experience. Thanks for posting, Vajra.

With metta,
Zenda
 
the first layer of me
was shed like a
maelstrom of emotions
and words that cut and burned
and raged like a wild fire
at me and from me
were
hate hateful hatred
all defensive
and all repetition
until it burned away
all semblances of me
and I knew I felt nothing

the second layer of me
was shed like a **** heap
of inflated words
and definitions
upon definitions
lip service in place of experience
shown the light of day
by the experiencial fact
that I did not know anything

the third layer of me
was shed like the skin
of the snake that lived
in the tree of knowledge
of good and evil
the skin falling to the ground
like pages of books
I have lived and read them all
and come away
knowing I am nothing

the fourth layer of me
is an empty cup
drunk dry three times

© 2003 DC Vision

 
Now you've departed and gone to the Unseen-
On what strange ways you've gone from our world!
You shook your feathers and you broke the cage;
You flew away, far, to the soul's own world.
You were a hawk, encaged by Mrs. World.
You heard the drum and flew to Where-no-place.
You were a nightingale among the owls-
The garden's scent came; you went to the rose.
You suffered headache from these bitter dregs-
At last you went to the eternal tavern...
The rose flees from the autumn-daring rose
That you went on in the autumnal wind!
You fell like rain on the terrestrial roof,
Run here and there, escaping through the spout.
Be silent-there is no more pain of speaking:
You are protected by a loving friend!

~ Rumi
 
refrigerator magnet poetry:




Who am I?
Dream Body is death
Enough!
See Sun as Moon
and Heaven as Earth
How?
Stablize the spirit
Keep Virtue intact
Calm the mind
Truth is sublime.
 
Last edited:
MOONLIGHT SONATA

1 a.m., somewhere in May
bright moonlight illuminates
a small teenage bedroom
giant posters of bigbreasted women
hang proudly over a yellow wall
10-inch model sportscars
are carefully planted on a black wooden shelf
a large expensive stereo
with CD-changer and double-deck tape
is playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata.

There's a picture of a little dog
hanging next to an American flag
and on the desk in the corner
lie some recently bought heavy metal CD's
some pictures of a school trip two weeks ago
some precious old comic books
and a small Mickey Mouse shaped desk lamp
Next to the desk stands a backpack
filled with books of chemistry,
physics, geometry and algebra.

And on the bed placed in the middle
lies the half-naked body of a 16-year old boy
with a yawning black hole in the side of his head
covered with seemingly gallons of blood
Next to him lies a smoking pistol,
a torn picture of a 16-year old girl
and a small paper with some quickly written words:
All I need is love
dot dot
bloodstain

IlluSionS667, 10 - 04 - 2000​
 
A Few From Hafiz

Hafiz wrote these. He was a Sufi kind of guy. The translations are by Daniel Ladinsky. Thank you, Daniel Ladinsky. :)

When The Violin

When
The violin
Can forgive the past

It starts singing.

When the violin can stop worrying
About the future

You will become
Such a drunk laughing nuisance

That God
Will then lean down
And start combing you into
His
Hair.

When the violin can forgive
Every wound caused by
Others

The heart starts
Singing.



You're It

God
Disguised
As a myriad things and
Playing a game
Of tag

Has kissed you and said,
"You're it--

I mean, you're Really IT!"

Now
It does not matter
What you believe or feel

For something wonderful,

Major-league Wonderful
Is someday going
To

Happen.



The Sun Never Says

Even
After
All this time
The sun never says to the earth,

"You owe
Me."

Look
What happens
With a love like that,
It lights the
Whole
Sky.

​
 
Solitude Coupled With the Many


With dead beer in hand, I go nowhere.
Adrift on the wind and currents of a local river,
I swim adrift. With head held aloft,
but not in pride, I swear in wonder
at the airplanes riding high overhead.

Five stars or countless stars--who cares?
How many cycles have to be counted
until it matters and we breathe free?
Counting all my doubts, I burn my useless
carcass on a pyre I call dumb luck.

In this moment, I smile. How many times
did my master with the most Holy name
strike me? Now we are laughing together.
The meadow is burning. It is burning
and we are laughing. All the while,

All the while miracles course through my veins
like the most common sand. It occurs to me
like a common thought that I am standing alone.
Here, on the shore. Here, running along the beach
with the waves crashing against my legs, I am alone.

--"pathless"
 
Song of the Grass-roof Hermitage

I've built a grass hut where there's nothing of value.
After eating, I relax and enjoy a nap.
When it was completed, fresh weeds appeared.
Now it's been lived in - covered by weeds.

The person in the hut lives here calmly,
Not stuck to inside, outside, or in between.
Places worldly people live, he doesn't live.
Realms worldly people love, he doesn't love.

Though the hut is small, it includes the entire world.
In ten square feet, an old man illumines forms and their nature.
A Great Vehicle bodhisattva trusts without doubt.
The middling or lowly can't help wondering;
Will this hut perish or not?

Perishable or not, the original master is present,
not dwelling south or north, east or west.
Firmly based on steadiness, it can't be surpassed.
A shining window below the green pines --
Jade palaces or vermilion towers can't compare with it.

Just sitting with head covered, all things are at rest.
Thus, this mountain monk doesn't understand at all.
Living here he no longer works to get free.
Who would proudly arrange seats, trying to entice guests?

Turn around the light to shine within, then just return.
The vast inconceivable source can't be faced or turned away from.
Meet the ancestral teachers, be familiar with their instruction,
Bind grasses to build a hut, and don't give up.

Let go of hundreds of years and relax completely.
Open your hands and walk, innocent.
Thousands of words, myriad interpretations,
Are only to free you from obstructions.
If you want to know the undying person in the hut,
Don't separate from this skin bag here and now.

​
 
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