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Stephe Watson Jun 2019
The trouble, I find,
with Seeking the Tao

is that one leaves the
Now.  And somehow,
seems unable to grasp
the Sought; one ought
simply to seek cessation
of Seek.
George Krokos Mar 2019
Embrace tiger, return to mountain
and get refreshment at a fountain.
In solitude and meditation
doubts are cleared by realisation.

The cares of the world are so many
one can't afford to bring back any;
although they help when called to do so
with what for others they have to know.

As yin and yang play their parts so well
those stories of the old one's do tell.
They're never alone in this struggle
and must also know how to juggle.

Advance and retreat each time they go
to share that knowledge of the Tao.
____
Written early in 2017. Based on my study and thoughts about Taoism.
Frankie Gestone Feb 2019
Then I heard, "We've met before. I believe countless times in innumerable lifetimes." She looked at me and said, "Boy, we have already done this. Don't you remember?" And the girl in my dreams said to look inside her eyes but not at her eyes. "There is a way out. I can show you if only you believe me. We can be free," she stated. Can the patterns really ever be broken? "You want temporary pleasure for permanent damage. This will **** you," she said. "Your mental imprisonment is an endless cycle, you broken record," she furiously lamented. "There is pain in everything. Pain in pleasure but pleasure in pain. What is growth without death? What is progress in happiness without change? The ultimate comfort is unknowingly repeating the same cycles over and over again. To enter the uncomfort zone is ultimate freedom." A beautiful dream just a brutal nightmare disguised that replays real events of the past in the mind until I wake up to realize they are no longer mine.

I sit still and she whispers for me to look down as she offers me a hot cup of tea. There is a South Korean woman in a red dress in my tea. She wears a lavender rose through her hair while looking at me. The ocean current pushes the waves to the surface of my mouth. She holds my hand softly, then gives a firm grip.


I am alone in a bedroom and there is a beautiful, but haunting Gregorian chant. I go out to the garden to pick foreign fruit from fences near an old church. I eat the fruit and she tells me to watch her hand. She draws three circles in the air. The first circle is small, the second is slightly bigger, and the third is much larger. "What is this?" I asked her with confusion in my voice. "Chaos," she said in an assuring manner. The circles followed each other surrounding me and going up and down. "But...can you see the order?" she asked me. I just watched them. "To understand the meaning is futile. It is beyond your comprehension. Things happen, you see. Maybe you think they are good or bad. It is just nature. Go with it and allow it. There you will become truth."


This woman wore black, she had pale skin, seductive emerald-green eyes, long and straight black hair, with a face so beautiful is was beyond reason. I could not look away. She directed me with her finger to come with her. We were naked and she kissed me in a dark room with the moonlight striking her body from the window of her bedroom. I closed my eyes and I heard her say, "Now try to find me." I opened my eyes and she was gone. As euphoric as I felt, I wondered where she had gone and if I would ever see her again.


I awoke to the oppressing sunlight burning my eyes. I felt an emptiness like never before. I searched lifetimes looking for her, only to receive hints of her echo. Every time it feels for sure I will meet her, I open the door to the beginning again. So I run and run in dreams. My mind is exhausted.


There she is. I have found her. I wait for her to look at me and recognize me, but she never does. She sits alone crying. I wait and then I leave. Something is wrong. Which is worse, I thought: To be rejected by the most important thing you have ever known or for it to disappear forever from your grasp and live each day and night yearning for it again? If only there was a cure for the mind's obsessions.


I woke up with no recollection of anything or who I even was. My phone was near my head ringing. I looked and it said, "Unknown Caller". Usually I never answer, but something told me to pick up and my curiosity got the best of me. I answered but said nothing. I listened and she said, "I found you," then asked, "What are we when our story ends?" There was nothing but pure silence until she responded with the question, "Now are you ready to be free?" I confirmed and followed her into the darkness.
Fallen Feb 2019
The color of white:
Seemingly simple, thoughtless—
All colors contained.

We see nothing else
But blankness and empty space,
Yet all hues are here.

All incarnations
Of color are happening—
Together as one.

Creation begins
In the Nameless, in Oneness.
All things make Nothing.

In Nothing there is Everything.
By embracing we give ourselves space.
Stephe Watson Dec 2018
There is within me
a moon-
a twilight Cézanne,
a barren Bhutan,
a dim-lit Rodin,
a mirage-less Sudan.

There is within me
a moon-
a post-war Japan,
a loveless Quran,
a last place at Cannes,
a Carson 'n couch
(without his McMahon.)

There is within me
a moon-
a 4th place finish in Laussane,
a certain Cohen sans his Suzanne.

a moon
a hunk of frozen rock, reflecting
gold sherd from all around
a spark in the dark, wholly drowned
the shiniest, hope-giving speck for years unbound

up close though,
should one
ever
dare to come
(of course none
ever
shall/have)
the sharp and unworn, no-color regolith

ever
alone, alone, alone he is
ever
on the verge of dirge he is

unhappily repeating to himself-
repeating to himself,
repeating to himself,
repeating to himself...

to himself,
to himself,
to himself...

by himself.
Poetry-ply / Response Ability /PooretReply


Thank you and a bow to
Heath
(AKA Taoist Poetry)
whose poem,
posted on 11/5/14
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100005264928556&fref=ts
inspired what follows and which begins:

"There is within me
a forest man..."
Stephe Watson Nov 2018
The sun's setting,
though it may leave you darkening,
is the start of the burning
far under your soles.

The browning now crinkling of
Summer's endlesseeming greening
is but the start of Springtime's
asylum in Xylem.
Phloem's sweet ware will
flow in 'em somewhere
down the line.
It’s pithy, I know
but life is born in death.
And though, come Fall,
trees seem seemingly sapped,
there's an inspiration transpiring.


The firepit's cooling
it's embers cast only shadows
and shades of memories of warmth
and story
and light...
None gather round, the gloomy.

The dormant circle
an ashen reduction
of oak and of fir
but its blackdust when wetted
(yes, ink!)
and dipped in by brush
will one day,
with luck,
be the source of a poet's
enlightening words.

The monarchs have gone -
a silent orange rustle
and, all at once,
the milkweeds go dry;
the once-green
stalks stand stock still,
Rods of Asclepias whose
seedlings are ever
the earliest snows.

Leaving home:
wherever the Earthbreaths may
take them -
bleak, brokenhearted,
hope in a coma...
How unlike the joy of the
flutterbys whose time now
has fluttered by, a chorus
as uttered by
the ungiven hope
who, though unasked,
has wandered the winds
to bring its daughters
(each healing, each hopeful)
a deathgiven panacea
to lands now in their
own limited unlimited Spring.



And you!  I know
your (sic) fiercely pretending
not to be crying.
Hell, to never've cried.
I know your lifework is
'manly' (your words) or
some other idiocy (my words)
and unbroken.  Hell, unbent.

But think on this:
if she's gone far enough,
far enough along,
far enough away;
enough time gone by
since you broke into One
('broke in two' is NOT how it feels),
if enough not enough Her
has passed,
then she's also
more than halfway back
to you,
to Whole.

Nothing can go,
nothing is lost
for there is no
'away' within this Here.
No one now, either
at a loss -
for the knowing
is nigh.
Even the knowing
cannot be going
for long 'fore returning;
the yearning is turning
from far-off to nearby.



The Sky lives as well
in every dark puddle.
Its blues, now on Earth
where all even All is at Home.
For John Shreffler whose images are the sole inspiration for this poem.  Thank you, sir! :)
Stephe Watson Oct 2018
The wet lichen
and I
sit upon the dew-slicked
outcrop of boulder bits
both preternaturally verdure

Each seeking solace in the
space
each seeking what we need from
air
Inclined to commune here, both
'til
the sunrays fade-
my companion soaking sun from
without
and I, I seek a subtler, silent
inner light

We two ourselves
had thought perhaps
to sitstill alone
here
And having found (of course,
of course) a fellow
sit-seeker here
changed course (of course)
and sat astride this
same (but not for long,
only for long) stone

What'd've been an I
(grumble,sigh)
was now a we you see
and I, as well was never
only I but, rather I
as I'd not yet known
and my body and its songs
The lichen too
composed
of two
sat as seeming One
but was as much
a fibrous mesh of fungal
strands sit-seeking
along with its
(not hosted but self-same self)
algal (not plant, not animal; not
either, not both) or cyanobacterial
bits of cells and life material

So together, apart and as much
as One
we looked down
in late-October dawn
into the pond
(to see the sun's rise and blush)
and each and both of us
hoped then to find and feel our Light

Then through the rising
warm mists
I sought the Sky
cloud-filled with cattails tufts
and there at last
(of course)
through the irreal fog
(annihilated obnubilation)
I saw the fog
and clouds as One

We two too
were One.
From my "Old Meditator" series.

Reflecting from the Now on the Then...

A Taoist possibly lamenting Buddhism.
Stephe Watson Oct 2018
There is no drought.
There is no rain.

There is no when...
There is no then...

There is no unmoved mountain.
There is no wishless fountain.

There is no forever thing-
Every day is Winter;
Every day is Spring;
There is no forever thing.

Every cloud is a rain cloud.
Everything is fearless,
everything is cowed.
Everything is peerless,
everything is arrogant.

Everything is bowed.

Everything is silent,
everything is loud.
Everything is promised,
and all is disavowed.

Every cloud is a rain cloud.
Everything is lost
sometime/someday/somehow
after it's endowed.

There is no drought.
There is no rain.

There is only
(there is only ever,
there is ever only)
your impatience.
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