in the wind….

now in the falling



calling us home…

Namu Amida Butsu


Just as I am,
right now

floating in an ocean of light –
the Great Compassion carries me across,

–  Namu Amida Butsu


” Chanting “Namu Amida Butsu,” which translates as “I entrust myself to the Buddha of Infinite Light and Life,” is not a form of petitionary  prayer or mantra. It is a means of communication between a relative being or consciousness and the Buddha deep within. When I chant, there is the expression of Namu Amida Butsu not only from this side, but also from the side of the Buddha. “ T. UNNO

My mouth,
Amida’s breath.




From the West
calling me home

my true self –


Blinded by
passions , I
complain out
loud in
the darkness
of my own


not noticing

the one
the boat
to the Other

shore, not
in the light

namu amida butsu


The Voiceless voice;

she calls out from within,

with these lips

& this breath.
Namu Amida Butsu
Namu Amida Butsu

even as I am,

the Buddha
& I are one.

Namu Amida Butsu
Namu Amida Butsu



My blind self
pierced by Amida’s light
illuminated and dissolved
into the great ocean of compassion

into the Oneness of life –
Palms together, embraced

just as I am.
Each step with the Buddha,
my truest self, my Amida self –

the deep flow of the oneness of realty –
all beings one with me,
palms together

and bowing,

“namu amida butsu,”
“namu amida butsu,”

embraced just as I am.

get laid
get stoned
get smashed
get a headache
get a venereal disease
but did you get
Anything about this life yet?

This poem was composed at Denver's Chada Thai Restaurant

The late, Allen Ginsberg,
Composed a famous poem called Kissass.
Because I,
Do not experience any sexual intimacy,
In my life,
I have not had the pleasurable experience
Of actually
Kissing a woman's butt.
I think I still have an Asskissing Problem,
And I want God to help me overcome
My tendency to Asskiss
During the upcoming
Days of Awe.

Airplanes on a Still Day

(Two in One Hour)

The sound softens
Something inside my brain—
Tangible, hypnotic,
Remote and forgiving,
Like a little Buddha within,
Or flying this sound trail
Through the draftless heavens.

The tiny drone
Rids the world of
Human clatter and its rush.

As a child, I savored it inside,
A sliding down the spine
And into the heart and through me;
A reverse of the rush of wine.

Back then, it was unquestioned, enjoyed.
But fifty or more years later, I asked why.
Time moved by and left no answer.
Nothing but a spring-like stillness aloft,
Unbound by seasons below.

But as I relished that sound this afternoon,
I felt the sense of spring again
In that aimless hum.
And knew at last why pilots sailed
In any weather, in crystalline air.

Up there, it was always spring,
Always sweet and calm
With promise;
A miracle that they ever descend!

If silence had a sound
Or utter calm
Were an elixir,
This would be its form.

The first poem takes place during the lifetime of Lord Buddha.

The second poem follows in the years soon after Lord Buddha left his body.

The third poem is the mind of the boy (the spirit of the boy in the first poem) in restless meditation. He has yet to attain full enlightenment. There are multiple voices suggested by parentheses and which are whispered words. If you prefer linear thought or literal interpretation this poem may not communicate to you. Just as a painting may be abstract, this poem is wide open to your own connections, thoughts and emotions. If you like, you can skip to the fourth poem.

The fourth poem, in three lines, lies within this portion of eternity that is forever present time.

Boy runner (the first poem)
Approaching Gautama where He sat a
boy examined Him politely. (This-that?)
Gautama spoke and there the unnamed boy,
who sitting a while with Him that day, thought
and over the days ahead returned, and
leaving only for food, drink and service
that Gautama would not be distracted
from His goal, until, upon returning,
he saw Him glowing in the morning light
and so began to dance with Him beneath
the tree. A leaf was shed, was gathered then
and the boy, who while tucking it away,
Gautama asked if he would run for Him,
to village, farm, crossroads, well, wherever
Gautama wished to speak. And so he ran,
and soon arriving, announcing thus His
coming—holding high the leaf he carried,
which had never died, living—living and
green until Lord Buddha left His body.

Depths of Green (the second poem)
Depths of green—from canopy to forest floor
In streams of raucous livingness
And there, and where about, a sanctuary
Falls in heaps, in stone walls run aground.

And with, nearby, afar, by ins and outs
Through every place (perceived)
Wherever listened for—vibration.

A single voice in Pali—a single voice
Leaping, leading, dancing, sweeping.

Hello. You greet me.

And if I split myself and stand (the third poem)
And if I split myself and stand
At every corner of said universe
On any selfsame summer day
With any selfsame afternoon rain
Will this, though thought—this slip
Where densities of interest fail
(Or by failures to perceive)

This leaf-boy-runner
Eight portions of beingness
The full, and fill of prime creation

(Perhaps where life has paused
Or slowed enough to perceive
At any speed
The speed of perception
The true speed of light
The wavelengths of laughter
And of any thing)

While density shifts
Where inertia has failed

(The density of my interest
The shift of my affinity)

There is no doubt
It has velocity
It gives back light
It bends the universe
It has location
From which expands
All space
Not already filled
With the logic of otherness
And even there it bends to will

As (my breadth of vision)
A torrent
An avalanche
A fissure in nothingness
A co-creation of All
This theatre
Our audience
Of stelae
Beacons of lostness
To wander by
In search of wavelengths
Of affinity
Where you might
Where I have
The curves beneath our frequencies
The pitch and roll of their design
Their width

(We have
Each other)

In all that vastness
An ordinary leaf
From this
For that
(I am)
The breathless

Cool in the shade (the fourth poem)
Cool in the shade
(still) dancing
with Lord Buddha


There is a quote I really love
The most mysterious of sayings
Out of all the things I heard of
This one truly is amazing

Men, wherever they may go
Whatever will be in their way
It's not theirs or mine to know
Fate alone will choose the day

When two are made to be together
Their lives' strings a woven chain
Will, unknowingly entwined forever
In the red circle inevitably meet again

Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, drew a circle with a piece of red chalk and said: “When men, even unknowingly, are to meet one day, whatever may befall each, whatever their diverging paths, on the said day, they will inevitably come together in the red circle.”

"Stress is caused by being ‘here’ but wanting to be ‘there’"
that's how a German author defines stress.

I read this quote
and write it down
in that tab I open
secretly at work
to avoid being
seen by my boss.

That tab,
that lives like a refugee,
like everything I like.

Buddha whispers to my ear,
-Attachment is the root of suffering-
with his funny accent
-The richest man is not he who has the most, but he who needs the least.-

I call into question
my arms race
against myself.
That cold war that started years ago
and never ended.

Yahve sets a
bush on fire
on the park
and talks to me.
He talks about
the promised land.
The same land he once promised
to Abraham,
to Isaac,
to Jacob,
to Moises,
to my grandparent,
to my parents.

And I then remember,
I am also a part of this exodus.

-the end justifies the means-
I repeat this to myself,
like a mantra,
trying to convince myself
as I see the parts of me
being left in the path.
The goal blends
into the horizon
like a mirage.

I see how other boys
come closer.
They are younger,
and run faster,
and better.

And I once was
one of those boys,
ready to run for days.
My parents ensure
my path has less rocks
and that my wall
(that wall people who run long distances know)
was lower and softer.

I see the corpses in the path
of the persons who weren't even able to see
the end.

My life is a constant wanting
to reach those lands
while I hate the desert
under my feet.

I'd be a Prophet or Sage
if only my wisdom
(if I even have some)
was lined up with my age

a reflective Buddha I'd be
I'd be an enlightened one
shaded from the bright sun
meditating 'neath the Bodhi tree

might as well face it
I can't erase it

for me...

age came with no wisdom
that's why it's so lonesome
a Buddha I'll never be
even if I do sit under a tree!

I guess that's okay...
don't mean to be too silly
but  I don't want Buddha belly
it's bad enough anyway!

Gotta be silly sometimes!

lying on this table
staring at me
is a monk with a pot belly

maybe he wonders
how is my ride to nirvana going

maybe he wonders
as to why instead of humming a  prayer,
i am on a war with the keyboard

maybe he reads the books I kept there
to trace where me heading

or maybe he was tired of everything around
had a hearty laugh and boom..
there was his nirvana.

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