Who is the person that you call an artist? A man who is momentarily creative? To me he is not an artist. The man who merely at rare moments has this creative impulse and expresses that creativeness through perfection of technique, surely you would not call him an artist. To me, the true artist is one who lives completely, harmoniously, who does not divide his art from living, whose very life is that expression, whether it be a picture, music, or his behaviour; who has not divorced his expression on a canvas or in music or in stone from his daily conduct, daily living. That demands the highest intelligence, highest harmony. To me the true artist is the man who has that harmony. He may express it on canvas, or he may talk, or he may paint; or he may not express it at all, he may feel it. But all this demands that exquisite poise, that intensity of awareness, and therefore his expression is not divorced from the daily continuity of living.

Thunder echoes.  
Flashes through billions
Of hailstones smashing against
Trees, leaving clouds of

Crushed leaves hanging, slowly
Blending into the chaos of
Angry weather, then: Nothing.
I worry for my windows,

Pounded with ice and shaking
From relentless thunder.
Nature, now, is an angry
Woman,

Child, heirloom or love stolen.
Furious fire, skies dark with a
Thousand wings.
Drop your swords and run,

Men. Your homes are in
Flames. Your armours as
Useless as your wet pairs of
Long johns.

Her loneliness wears maroon,
                 I am aware," to her yin, my yang,"
mine in deep purple echoes,
                the density that's her, in my presence.
On an island of her own, she sojourns,
                 where there is comfortable room for two.
A happy recluse she is, ruminating,
                 diving deeper in to the sea of consciousness.
What does it really mean?
                  we are wound around a "KOAN", working on it,
wouldn't stop to think,  I flow
                    with the insistent gravitas of the current,
Through her the dense silence speaks,
                     in voices clear,  heard within me.
all beyond words, and in a far more
                     subtle plane, than this existence.

Tongues tied and covered in ink,
choking on the ashes of thought.

Mindfires burning eternally
so we all write it all out.

I look up at the evening sky and it nearly brings me to tears.
I feel so small in the grand scheme. I could live to be maybe what?
100 years?
This insignificance is my reality.

I feel so small in a world so big,
in a universe unfathomable
and I don't know what to do about it.

Eyes see what the
Heart allows.
I love you, and hand
You slivers of silver.
You curse me for
My needles.