All the valleys, green, rumpled
And cresting in their April dress
And all the creatures who live under,
They wade and stroke and dive,
I live high above in my light house,
Watching the ocean waves.

I felt blessed riding the 6:05 train from Chuncheon to Sareung.
Maybe it was the ample, honest glow of the sun
still stretching behind the mossy mountains,
limbering up for the dawn's day ahead.

Maybe it's because I could hear-
sure as the train's faithful stop at each and every station-
God breathing celestial calm down into the valley,
stirring the leaves, but letting the people sleep.

Maybe it's because there sat leaning against me
a beautiful native friend, using me as a pillow-
one surely not as soft as the fluffy duvet
of fog which tenderly kept the river banks tucked-in.

Or maybe because each of her gentle stirs
reminded me of my place on earth right there, right then,
and kept me from being overwhlemed by it all,
kept me in my seat,
kept me from suddenly getting off at one of the vacant sacred stops
and attempting to be at one with the majestic.

Not to eliminate,
but to find stability
from an unlikely source,
our insecurities...
perhaps is the answer.

They are the ties to our balloons,
the dam to ego's flood.
They are the oxygen
to humanity's blood.
Be a vain breed we would
without them.

the man bowing
tonight in the temple
is a man who is more lost
than a ****-head in an alley

i do not want to hear
what your book says
about right and wrong
or what will become
of the world
your religious words
have become ***** to me
after all i’ve seen
so please
don’t make me hear it again

“Praise God”
“Hallelujah”
“Blessed is He”
“Salvation is near”
the words mean nothing
but easy acceptance

instead i will read
the secrets written
on flower petals
and listen to whispers
of far away galaxies
i will worship nothing
except laughter
friendship
and adventure

you can keep your holy words
and tiny world
i will take the universe as it is

Even nirvana must be empty.
Even silent revelation must allow herself to be taken, afterward,
by noise.

Kept, perhaps, might be a few
thoughts—the principles of salvation, maybe, easily incorporated
orts

soaked up, scooped with bread.
Chewed, passed—as everything, habitually—disintegrated into in-
visible

fuel for the festering divisions.
(Precisely those divisions sought to be stilled by breathing deeply,
crossing

the legs of, still, a body.) But
even nirvana must be swallowed by the Buddha’s gaping mouth
of transience.

For afterward, must it not stay,
still, the same? After achievement? Yes, I like to mock as I loll, in
naivety,

but I am also a talented nurturer
of it. I know behind is something quite valuable. A transient irony,
perhaps.

Art is the fabric of our society
The proof that we once lived
That we are humans and not beast
It is the evidence of intelligence

But it's so **** hard to define
Art can be from the sixteenth chapel to a pillow case
From Romeo and Juliet to a simple student essay
Art has a broad horizon
It mean so much more than what we give it credit for
The possibility of art never subsides
And I can never define it

Art is not special because it looks pretty
Or because it is made with feeling
Art is special, for it's up to interpretation
That you can look at the Mona Lisa and say she is a tease
Or read the road less travailed and say "he's not the smartest man"  
See, even if you got nothing but hate for the art it's done it's job
It made you think made you wonder and contemplate  
Even if you hate all art of any type
The beauty will still exist
Hate can't stop that

So what the hell is art
Is nature art
Or is art
Our
Representation
Of our nature
Of all the beauty and pain
That we see
That we feel
That we desire,
For others
To see
What we see
For them to feel what we felt 
To contemplate what we contemplated
To wish, hope, dream like we do?
Is that who artists are
No more than copying machines 
Is this what art is a faded out copy
Of the artist's love

Or is art undefinable
That this is one of the  
Most simplistic  Thing
That to brake it down  
Is to lose a meaning
It's like if we define it
That's all it will be
It will not shift with time
And it will be taught
Just as it is and not
A indefinite concept
That can morth into  
Any thing you wish 
It to be

So who am I to define what brings joy into the heart of others
I'm not special
No more than the next guy
So no more labels for me
I will let art become
What I can't imagine
I will let it sift and change
And never more  
Will I try to bind it
With my definitions
With my labels
I will just create it
The way I wish for it to be

the wind takes
the leaves
         now curled
dried and brown
on the oak
     sapling
the leaves shake
     loose
their mantra
         calling
     Oṃ maṇi padme hūṃ
to bless this wood
with their
     compassion

After careful contemplation, the Zen Master knew the best placement for the last stone in his rock garden.

After lifting the heavy stone and walking to the point he noticed
a small turtle standing on the exact spot.

And so the Master waited patiently.

... As did the turtle.

Finally his student came into the garden to inquire of the Master
Why he had been holding such a large stone for over an hour.

"Master, are you thinking of a new place to put your stone?"

"No, I already know where the stone will go"

"Where?"

"Where this turtle now stands"

"Master, will you crush the turtle?"

"Please don't be an idiot"

"But Master, the turtle does not want to move"

"It is such a beautiful spot"

"Master, what will you do?"

"Isn't it clear what should be done? I am going to put this stone down close to where it should go, move the turtle, and then correct the stone later"

"But Master, why have you not done that?"

"I am contemplating the best placement for the turtle"