#zen - Hello Poetry

If a warm smile from a stranger Makes your day For others, be that stranger

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10h ago

Jun 3, 2026 at 10:34 AM UTC

mystic-ink-plus

Zen Offering

If a warm smile from a stranger Makes your day For others, be that stranger

3

~ seeking all my life the secret of happiness true love always receding warm cat on my lap purrs lull me to reverie gentle claws awaken me ~

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May 7

May 7, 2026 at 10:17 PM UTC

Jason_R_Michie

Wants and Kneads

~ seeking all my life the secret of happiness true love always receding warm cat on my lap purrs lull me to reverie gentle claws awaken me ~

8

The Wolf and the Last ***** Deep in the heart of the mountain turns a single screw, black as forgotten ink, silver where moonlight gently touched it. An old wolf steps silently from the mist, his fur carrying the runes of past nights like tender scars. He places his paw upon the cold metal. The gears hold their breath. “Everything returns,” whispers the wind through the cracks, “nothing is ever truly lost in the great, eternal song of time.” The wolf howls once — barely audible, almost like a sigh of the world. The ***** turns on, slowly, like a beating heart. And from the darkness blooms a lotus of pure light, opens for one trembling moment and closes again, as if it had never been. The wolf walks on, leaving no trace behind. Only the distant ticking remains — a heartbeat in the eternal snow, a secret that only he understands.

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May 1

May 1, 2026 at 9:12 AM UTC

SilentVerses26

The Wolf and the Last *****

The Wolf and the Last ***** Deep in the heart of the mountain turns a single screw, black as forgotten ink, silver where moonlight gently touched it. An old wolf steps silently from the mist, his fur carrying the runes of past nights like tender scars. He places his paw upon the cold metal. The gears hold their breath. “Everything returns,” whispers the wind through the cracks, “nothing is ever truly lost in the great, eternal song of time.” The wolf howls once — barely audible, almost like a sigh of the world. The ***** turns on, slowly, like a beating heart. And from the darkness blooms a lotus of pure light, opens for one trembling moment and closes again, as if it had never been. The wolf walks on, leaving no trace behind. Only the distant ticking remains — a heartbeat in the eternal snow, a secret that only he understands.

18

The Panda of the Hidden Pond Deep in the mountain valley rests a hidden pond black as forgotten ink shimmering silver in the breath of morning mist An ancient temple sleeps sunken beneath only a stone lotus keeps silent vigil One morning a faint splashing pierces the veil the mist parts gently A panda rises from the water black and white like living brushstrokes still as an unspoken prayer It gazes at the woodcutter without fear without question only with that ancient wordless certainty The mist weaves a delicate lotus bloom opens softly closes again And the man understands something deeper than words Everything returns home Nothing is truly lost The panda glides back into the silver mist The woodcutter keeps the secret yet when evening mist arrives he carves small panda figures from cedar wood and places them at the window as silent guardians of the unspeakable Not from longing but from quiet knowing

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May 1

May 1, 2026 at 8:36 AM UTC

SilentVerses26

The Panda of the Hidden Pond

The Panda of the Hidden Pond Deep in the mountain valley rests a hidden pond black as forgotten ink shimmering silver in the breath of morning mist An ancient temple sleeps sunken beneath only a stone lotus keeps silent vigil One morning a faint splashing pierces the veil the mist parts gently A panda rises from the water black and white like living brushstrokes still as an unspoken prayer It gazes at the woodcutter without fear without question only with that ancient wordless certainty The mist weaves a delicate lotus bloom opens softly closes again And the man understands something deeper than words Everything returns home Nothing is truly lost The panda glides back into the silver mist The woodcutter keeps the secret yet when evening mist arrives he carves small panda figures from cedar wood and places them at the window as silent guardians of the unspeakable Not from longing but from quiet knowing

29

There once was a wise old sage, who for years carried with him a tiny ball of silken thread, given him, when first he started sageing. One morning, upon arising from a restless nights sleep, before going on with his days wanderings, he sat down beneath a tree to ponder the ball of thread. Gaining no realization from this, he stood and tied one end of the string to the tree. The other he would take with him on his day’s travel letting the ball unravel until at last it would be understood as but a single strand of silk. Without further delay or thought on the matter, he started off across the countryside. At the end of the day, when the sun had at last fallen behind the farthest rise, and the ball of thread had at last dwindled down to but a single strand, the sage sat down to discover what meaning was to be found. “It began as a ball of silken thread.” he thought. “It has come to an end where I now sit. Now I must either go tomorrow without the gift that was once given me, or waste today’s journey by following the string back to where I began this morning.” This dilemma brought the sage to meditate the rest of the night. By morning he had arrived at what he hoped a wise solution. With great determination the sage gave one, mighty yank, and broke the thread from the tree where he had tied it. Through the course of this new day’s journey, he wound the thread into the tiny ball it once was. That night he returned the ball to its pouch, and satisfied at last, lay down and died.

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Nov 18, 2021

Nov 18, 2021 at 4:56 AM UTC

charles-leonard

When First He Started Saging

There once was a wise old sage, who for years carried with him a tiny ball of silken thread, given him, when first he started sageing. One morning, upon arising from a restless nights sleep, before going on with his days wanderings, he sat down beneath a tree to ponder the ball of thread. Gaining no realization from this, he stood and tied one end of the string to the tree. The other he would take with him on his day’s travel letting the ball unravel until at last it would be understood as but a single strand of silk. Without further delay or thought on the matter, he started off across the countryside. At the end of the day, when the sun had at last fallen behind the farthest rise, and the ball of thread had at last dwindled down to but a single strand, the sage sat down to discover what meaning was to be found. “It began as a ball of silken thread.” he thought. “It has come to an end where I now sit. Now I must either go tomorrow without the gift that was once given me, or waste today’s journey by following the string back to where I began this morning.” This dilemma brought the sage to meditate the rest of the night. By morning he had arrived at what he hoped a wise solution. With great determination the sage gave one, mighty yank, and broke the thread from the tree where he had tied it. Through the course of this new day’s journey, he wound the thread into the tiny ball it once was. That night he returned the ball to its pouch, and satisfied at last, lay down and died.

5

~ staring into space bright stars disappear from sight void calls the soul home returned to oblivion to find peace in nothingness ~

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Apr 22

Apr 22, 2026 at 10:13 AM UTC

Jason_R_Michie

Abyss

~ staring into space bright stars disappear from sight void calls the soul home returned to oblivion to find peace in nothingness ~

7

~ Delusions demanding my complacency I surrender hope, desire, agency And we are one Silence compressing my ribcage I return obliging emptiness And we are one Absence screaming in my head I purge my lungs into the abyss And we are one Despair consuming my will I offer up ravenous optimism And we are one Memory igniting my heart I scorch my soul on nostalgic pyres Where we are one ~

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Apr 9

Apr 9, 2026 at 8:34 AM UTC

Jason_R_Michie

The Zen of Burning Alive

~ Delusions demanding my complacency I surrender hope, desire, agency And we are one Silence compressing my ribcage I return obliging emptiness And we are one Absence screaming in my head I purge my lungs into the abyss And we are one Despair consuming my will I offer up ravenous optimism And we are one Memory igniting my heart I scorch my soul on nostalgic pyres Where we are one ~

17

Sun rises, And so do I. A thousand days, One single rhythm. In this circle, Fear finds no room. I am my own Hearth and light. Let time pour, Drop by drop. He who stands alone Drinks the whole world.

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Apr 22

Apr 22, 2026 at 12:47 AM UTC

Sargon

Day

Sun rises, And so do I. A thousand days, One single rhythm. In this circle, Fear finds no room. I am my own Hearth and light. Let time pour, Drop by drop. He who stands alone Drinks the whole world.

12