Unusual Beauty

I saw him
years ago
at my local gift shop,
when I took a brief excursion
from soul-crunching work at the office.
A figurine of a black man,
falling asleep on his sofa
while watching TV.
His popcorn spilled.
Can’t remember
if he drools too…
He is not “neat.”
But there is unmistaken beauty
in his sloppiness.
A carefreeness
that warms my heart.
So relaxed.
So comfortable.
So honest.

At some point
I stopped reading.
Not entirely.
But almost.
When I enter the old bookstore,
I am gravitate towards the poetry.
Before, I would head towards
the Philosophy section,
the History section,
the Science section.
(Yes, there is poetry in science too.
Also beauty,
also awe and wonderment.
Don’t you read Quantum Mechanics?)
Today, I no longer read with my head.
Just want to feel with my heart.
Poetry soothes my soul.
It makes a great companion.
I am not after elegant words,
or profound meaning.
Not really interested in the poet’s fame.
I just want to taste and cherish,
the Silence,
so lovingly painted by my poet friends.
I want to read each poem slowly.
Meditate on it.
Savor every line.
I want to stare at the blank space
surrounding the words.
And feel the harmony
between emptiness and form.
I am addicted
even to the illustrations;
they are poetry in themselves.
I want to imbibe the atmosphere,
the emotions, and the meaning of it all.
Until I am drunk.
Until I become poetry.

You asked me what Samsara is,
How can I begin to explain?
Samsara, Buddha says, is this cycle
Of continuity, without a visible end.
It’s the world of unenlightened existence,
Where beings wander and run around,
Blinded by ignorance; fettered by thirst.
But Samsara is also a perfume,
Desirable, enchanting.
It is the object of one’s adventure;
The teaser in the perpetual chase.
Samsara is this floating world,
Transient, yet beautiful;
Samsara is the house of dreams,
built by the delusions of the ego,
Fueled by endless wants.
Samsara is the realm of suffering—
This world of blood, sweat and tears.
Samsara is the playground of the enlightened,
Who holds heaven and earth just as dear.
Samsara is the opposite of Nirvana,
Yet Samara IS Nirvana
When pesky illusions disappear.

Zen photos use no words.
Transmission is heart to heart.
All captured in one picture.

Early morning, 1 a.m.
I listen to music
flowing through the night air.
Music that was unremarkable during the day
takes on new meaning against the night’s silence.
Suddenly the melody comes alive
and the lyrics speak to me.
Why couldn’t I appreciate this beauty
during the day?
In the morning silence,
when the mind is not cluttered,
every note becomes clearer.
In my quiet solitude
I become a pious listener.

How can we heal the wounded planet, you ask.
I have no big ideas to offer.
But I know we can help the Earth
by relearning how to take pleasure
in the smallest and the most ordinary things.
Why travel ten thousand miles
to find excitement in a place far away?
I take my vacation while staying home.
What joy is it to sit in a quiet cafe,
to sip coffee slowly
while I reminiscent, read or write.
What a luxury to find
a seat by the window
where the sun shines in.
It’s my photosynthesis--
to bask in sunshine and warmth,
in defiance of Winter’s cold.
To be alone in the midst of people.
To let silence be moderated
by a small background noise,
like birds chirping in a garden.
It’s a perfect place to fish for ideas,
to compose and create.
Who needs a plane ride
when one can create one's own island
by going deep into the
sanctuary of the mind?
The small pleasures of life.
They can save the world.