Maturity is not a matter of how old, how smart or how successful you are;
It has everything to do with how well you manage walking through fire.

Maturity is not just the ability to have ***, or not to have ***;
It has to do with one’s ability to empathize, feel and connect with another human being, and balance one’s passion with compassion.

Maturity does not necessarily mean that you can support yourself in every each way.
But it does mean that you don’t base your peace and happiness on the emotional support, praise, affirmation or approval of others.

Maturity has nothing to do with how charming you are or how socially graceful you have made yourself to be; it has much to do with how you handle your own anger, fear, lust, greed, jealousy and other inner demons when you are away from the limelight.

Maturity does not mean to live one’s life seriously or cautiously all the time;
It is also to know when is the time to relax, to forget oneself and dance wildly as if no one is watching.

Maturity is not to value what the world values, or to despise what the world despises.
It is to see treasure in what the world discards, and magic in what is ordinary.

Maturity is knowing that one does not have to be “perfect” all the time;
It has to do with how well we take failure, rejection, betrayal and defeat and learn from them.

Maturity is realizing that one does not always have to agree with what everybody else believes in; it is the ability to formulate one’s own opinion, makes one’s own decision and having the courage to be different.

Maturity is not the ability to win many friends or attract many lovers.
It is the ability to generate joy and fulfillment from within, without relying on the company of others.

Maturity is the ability to enjoy one’s solitude and silence in the darkness of the night.

Just love those
Sunday afternoons.
A time with nothing to do,
no place to go,
no people to see.
Time for delicious laziness
and carefree leisure.
I search on Youtube,
our collective memory vault,
fishing for songs from the 70s.
Music of the Eagles,
Carol King and Bread.
Turn up the volume,
let the music flow.
Easy listening on Sunday afternoon
is a family tradition.
dating back to childhood.
A sacred weekend ritual
of lying on the window sill,
listening to Father’s LPs,
while I savored the scent
of Mom’s home cooking.
All the while soaking in the sun.
Content like a cat.

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.

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.

Slowly
she loosens her hair.
Strands of black silk
descends on bare skin,
waiting to be touched.

The closer winter,
the more intense my colors.
I burn like Fall leaves.

For weeks, months,
my neighbor’s house has gone dark.
Used to be at least a dim light at night.
A yellow light-bulb kind of glow
to indicate a sign of life.
Now there is nothing.
No car parked in her driveway.
No sight of her in the morning either.
So unusual for her, an early riser.
She used to be in her garden by 7 a.m.
What happened?
It was four years ago,
in January of 2015,
that Death visited our block.
After a long stretch of illness,
our respective spouses passed
within weeks of each other.
Who would have imagined?
Our two houses used to be teaming with life.
Children running and laughing.
Dogs barking.
Scents of home cooking filling the air.
Now, our families become the oldest on the block.
Not even families anymore.
I live alone; so does my neighbor.
Empty nesters.
Survivors from a previous era.
I couldn’t resist calling my neighbor up,
to see how she was doing
this bitter cold January.
The phone rang.
Once, twice, thrice.
The waiting was ominous.
I thought that was it.
Finally she answered.
Said she had been sick since Christmas.
Luckily, nothing serious.
At least she is recovering.
After hanging up the phone,
I was ecstatic.
I jumped with joy.
We are still here.

The yellow tulip my wife planted
35 years ago still wakes up
every Spring, beaming with life.
But wife is long gone.
Is this her way to say hello?

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.

The man’s expression is serene, radiant.
A Buddha-like figure,
with a painted third eye.
The woman is graceful,
relaxed but bold.
She spreads her thighs wide,
opening her petals with her fingers,
to let him look inside.
He smiles as he gazes into her ***,
like examining a gem.
Both people look happy and dignified.
They share an enchanted moment,
of kindness, of generosity.
Of mutual trust.
They manage to recover
the innocence of ***.

It's 3 pm on a crisp summer day.
After a full day of madness with kids,
I recuperate at my town's library.
Find a seat overlooking the village green.
Sip a small cup of Columbian coffee.
Savoring its flavor and smoothness,
as I read my favorite book at leisure.
Meditating on its deep meaning.
Ah, the small pleasures of life!

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.

After a long night of rain,
Autumn finds its way to my front steps.
A harvest of leaves.

Frigid night,  I gaze

into the winter sky and

dine on stars and ice.

Opening your card,
I feel
spring blowing into my heart.
I smell
fragrance from our gentle pond.
I see
splendor of Buddha’s flower.
Only one complaint—
My hands get so busy
picking up this ecstatic sprinkle
of hearts, moons and stars…
Making sure
that I collect
every single piece of love.
from you..

You tell me not to touch you anymore,
yet you open for me the gates into your inner sorrow
and let me taste the saltiness of your tears
as I watch you cry like a scared child.
You say we can't love each other any longer,
yet you cradle my head with your warmth and kindness,
and listen to me talking about the history of my torments
way into the wee hours of the morning.
Don't you see, my beloved,
that we have found new ways to share our beings
and a new music to make love?
We make love when you yield to me completely,
and let me see your despair and helplessness.
We make love when I toss aside my male armor of toughness
to show you what has been devouring my spirit
and eating my soul.
We make love even when I have no words to comfort you;
when all I can do is to caress you with my silence
and ride with you into the darkness of the night.
We make love when I overcome my fear of rejection
and tell you about my many lovers;
but you absorb all these like a sentient sea,
even as you are feeling the sting.
Yes, my beloved, we make love even as the god
of Reason has banned our love words and
send our passion to the far corner of the cosmos.
For the Sun of our love refuses to go down
and we'll always find new ways to be together.
Our love is shining brighter,
in fact, it is the only thing that remains in this
crisp blue sky of our joined universe,
now that the clouds of passion are blown away....

Stepping into an old bookstore,
something immediately winked at me.
A poetry book with a bold title
--“*** with God.”
Why does it piqued my interest?
*** WITH GOD.
Is it unimaginable?
Is it blasphemous?
Would someone get offended?
Why does the mind automatically tear apart
the profane and the divine,
the earthly and the transcendent?
God is the essence of purity.
Who says *** can't be pure too?
When Love arrives in her full glory.
That person becomes All There Is.
That is devotion.
That is the peak of piety.
Atheists think that God does not exist.
I recall the times when God came to me
in form of a Woman.
She has lifted me to the peak of ecstasy.
She has dragged me to the dungeons of hell.
It is an occasion for jubilation.
It is an occasion for trials and tribulations.
Joy and sorrow intertwine.
Heaven and hell merge.
The Sufis know it well--
God takes the form of the Lover.
In the flesh I encounter the Divine.

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.

Grey November afternoon.
Very late for raking leaves.
Used to be a family affair,
with children running in the yard,
making mischief.
Now, it is a one-man job.
The autumn leaves
still smell fragrant.
The crisp cold air
still pleasing to breathe.
Toiling away, I seem to hear
the voice of late wife,
yelling at us,
barking orders.
Oh, how I used to hate this job.
Yard work is so exhausting.
Why is it that
even bad old days
seem so lovely now?

Yesterday, someone posted
an image of a **** sculpture.
Exquisite picture
of a a maiden in yoga pose,
one leg raised up high.
Her yoni fully exposed.
Its title—
The Sacred Feminine.
All the men complimented her beauty.
One praised the elegance of her flower garter.
No man dared comment on her *****.
To do so would be “******.”
No comments from the women folks either.
Except one, supposedly a Tantric teacher.
She found it “offensive.”
Offensive?
Are you joking, Madame?
The Tao Te Ching calls the Tao
the Primordial *****.
The Mother of All Things.
Why do we shudder
at the sight of the Source,
our Mother?
Why so embarrassed and bothered?
If the human body is ****,
then God is a pornographer.
It is time, really,
to pay tribute to our Common Home,
and restore our Mother’s honor.

Love is
two soft animals
venturing out of their shells.
Underbelly exposed.
Trembling,
feeling foolish.
Embarrassed
about themselves.
But can’t stop
the madness.
Like moths approaching
a flame,
they are doomed
to be consumed
by the sacred fire.
Totally.

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.

I meet you
each night
at the silent room,
where there is no sound, but
the pounding of your own heart.
No touch, but
the tantilization of your skin.
No smell, but the
subtle scent of your own arousal.
And no music, but waves
after waves of tortuous delight
hitting your vulnerable shore
until you scream your silent scream,
as you perish into quiet oblivion.

Mid-December, 8 pm.
A sudden snow stole into the slums
of Bronx, softening its harsh streets
of broken glass and shattered dreams.
Under the mellow glow of the night lamps,
these streets are Christmas-like,
enchanted by a blanket of fluffy white.
At a corner, three men huddled
around a fire fueled by newspaper,
rubbing their hands, stamping their feet,
shaking away the night's chill.

Yes, I know this neighborhood.
I peruse it every day like urban scripture
as my train shuttles between Grand Central
and my lush suburban town.
The run-down buildings, the graffiti walls,
the unadorned church with just a simple cross
--I know them!  They are
monuments of hopelessness and decay
where jobless men stare out of their window
with blank faces, meditating on
the lives that have passed them by.
Staring into their curtainless apartments,
I look for clues into their souls,
trying to FEEL the way they live.
My eyes search through their playground,
looking for laughter, looking for children
who have not forgotten how to play
and smile....

If I were to live in another time,
I may be called a temple priestess.
But today, we servants of the Goddess
are despised and called “******.”
Why is it wrong
to be a lover of men?
Why is it a crime
to make a living serving them?
Why can’t they see
that I too make an offering to the Most High?
Every cell of my body enjoys
pleasuring men.
I love the way men feel.
I savor the way men smell.
I yearn for the ferocity,
the animalness of men’s passion;
the way they grab me
and move.
I give pleasure,
I receive pleasure.
It feels so safe and snug
when I have a man inside.
Watching men ******
throws me over the edge.
I am Aphrodite’s temple,
the sunny place where men visit
to seek warmth and healing.
Let me stay true to my ***** self.
Why feel ashamed
about loving to ****?
Why feel guilty about
the act that brings us all here?
It’s how you and I are made.
Delicious ***,
the very spice of life,
makes my garden bloom.
Let me take pride of my whoredom;
it’s the place where I live and create.
Don’t make me apologize,
for this is the sacred path I choose.
What an honor to serve pleasure,
to be the holy receptacle.
It’s my calling and my gift.
This is what life is about--
serving others, sharing joy,
re-creating life with carnal music,
making myself
quiver and come.

The feminine is
the Goddess,
the hidden,
the mysterious.
It is the soft,
the curvy,
the simmering heat
that slowly brings
blood to boil.
The liquid sensuality that
awakens
the animal in me.
It is the Earth,
the fecund mother of all things,
the wet, musky soil,
the exquisite receiver.
The masculine is active,
sometimes aggressive.
But the feminine is
the ****** stillness.
Its moss-laden door lies waiting
for the right moment
to open up to thunder
and rain.
Lao Tze said that
The softest in the world
will conquer the hardest.
So true!
I am grateful
even in my defeat.

In my youth,
I listened to the rain in the singing houses,
under dim candle lights
in a big luxurious bed.
In my middle ages,
I listened to the rain
in a sojourner’s boat,
on the big river,
under heavy clouds,
as the geese made their forlorn calls
in the west wind.
Today, I listen to the rain
in the monks’ quarters.
My hair spotted with white.
In all these meetings and partings,
are there still any remaining feelings?
Rain keeps falling on my front steps.
Pittering, pattering all night,
until the day breaks.

One tree standing
under grey Autumn sky.
Barren. Stripped.
Yet majestic
and confident
in its nakedness.
Without a single leaf remaining
the branches look delicate now.
Is this what happens
when we clear away the clutter?
When I get really old,
I wish to be just like you--
So simple.
So dignified.
So beautiful.

Opening my window
I see the old tree of my backyard
BURST
into flames of autumn passion.
My dear tree,
I guess you are not too old
for that!

Lying in my bed,
I watched in silence
the sensual dance of light
making love to shadow,
as the wind caressed my
curtain with its invisible hand.
Oh, the ecstacy of the ordinary!

It doesn’t interest me how “proper” or respectable you look.
I want to know if you are willing to risk
the disapproval of your peers, family and friends,
to articulate honestly what ignites your passion.
It doesn’t impress me highly educated you are.
I want to know if you truly know your ****** self and preferences.
Not what society wants you to love or hate,
but what your soul is genuinely drawn to,
even if it is deemed “perverse” or politically incorrect.
It does not matter to me if you are gentlemanly or ladylike.
I want to know if you dare to reveal the animal in you,
despite what is taught by your religion, your moral upbringing.
or the tribalism of your own ***.
It does not matter to me if you are popular or shunned.
I want to know if you dare to stand alone,
to be ostracized if need be,
in defense of what you know to be natural, good and true.

Sunday morning I bask

by the window of a French café

Soaking up the sun.

Under the bridge
the homeless man lifts
the roof of his cardboard house.
Has he ever noticed, I wonder,
the magic of the winter moon?

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

The Mute Girl

I don't know her name,
don't know where she is now,
don't even know if she is still alive..
But her face is still fresh
in my childhood memories.
She was the one who lived across the street
with her grandmother
in that weather-stripped apartment,
always smiling as she stood at the porch.
We have never exchanged words,
only hand-waves through the air.
She was the mute girl to whom I threw a piece of candy,
which sweetness still warms my heart
after these thirty odd years.
I can still see her blooming smile...

The crackling fire last night
was playing our song,
punctuated
only by your sighs.
I miss you already!

Let’s not be fooled
by reason or the scientific mind.
Magic is real.
It happens,
often when we don’t expect it.
After working six hours straight,
teaching six classes back to back,
with no lunch break in between,
I am a desert plant
on the edge of wilting.
I stagger into a local restaurant,
thinking I deserve a good meal.
But the food is just mediocre.
Would have cursed, if not for the music,
which is pure sorcery.
How do they know the songs of my youth,
the songs that touch my soul?
Soft rock from the Seventies,
music of the Eagles, the Foreigners,
Ambrosia, Al Stewart…
All of a sudden, I am young again.
I regain my graduate student self,
living my Bohemian lifestyle
in the midst of Greenwich Village.
Life again is full of possibilities.
Music is a time machine,
which transports me with a spell,
whizzing through four decades in a flash.
So, today, the universe gives me a gift.
It makes me young again,
even if it is for half an hour,
as I dine alone in some unknown restaurant.
on a Friday afternoon.
My heart bursts with gratitude.
This is the nourishment I need.

Last night
I listened to the river
of your sorrow and
kissed
the fragments
from your heartbreak
until our distance
was once again
evaporated by the
white heat of our
merging souls
and we exploded
into sweet
Oblivion.

The old man,
like Ebenezer Scrooge,
lives alone in a drafty old house.
But his house, unlike Scrooge’s,
is stocked with books.
Hundreds of them,
on all kinds of subjects--
philosophy, science,
history, religion,
also art and poetry.
He acquired them,
for a pittance.
through used book sales.
A dollar, two dollars each.
Books published decades ago.
Products from a different era.
Pages yellowed,
weather-worn,
but nicely bound
and scented with soul.
Some with dedications.
Perhaps a gift from one lover to another.
Others with handwritten notes
written at the margins.
Records of the previous owner’s
remarks, questions and pondering.
What does he see in them?
Don't they belong to the junk pile?
Perhaps he knows
that on a cold winter night,
these books will serve
as his only companions.
Books other people discard,
are his protection
against old age and loneliness.
He acquires them,
not for knowledge,
but for warmth.
They are his substitute
for the lost human touch.
They are his sustenance.

***
is a conversation
in ****** silence,
using something
better than words.

Converse with your body.
Feel each other’s heat.
Temperature
cannot lie.
It is truer than words.

Converse with your soul,
couched in inner wilderness.
The soul has its own rhyme and reason.
It has a subtle way to triumph
over the ego’s objection.

***
is a communion,
not a solo act.
First be quiet and listen.
Just like any sacred art,
it requires  your full presence.

This autumn morning
I am a city hermit.
Leaving my watch at home,
I stroll down the streets of Manhattan
with tourist eyes,
walking,
without trying to get anywhere,
entering crowds
without losing my silence or solitude,
feasting my eyes on Fall colors
while others are busy getting to work.
And then, I stop,
for no other reason than to pick up
a little red leaf
to LISTEN
to what it has to tell me.

From my plane's window,
thirty thousand feet from ground,
the clouds resemble the floor
of a winter desert,
bleached white and sterilized
by the glaring sun.

"There is no self,"
I heard Buddha taught.
But if the self is a mirage,
who is the one suffering?
And who gets enlightened?
Who is the one writing THIS?
The Universe sings and dances.
It jokes and plays.
It makes tender love.
It creates itself
for its own pleasure.
No self is needed
in this divine play.
The Sutra says
there is no suffering,
No sufferer.
No noble truth.
No ignorance
and no enlightenment.
No wisdom.
No attainment.
It's just the Universe
at play, making
its own entertainment
in this game of One.

And *** is a meditation,
a mystical experience,
a hypnotic state
from which there is no escape.
O pilgrim,
engage all your senses
in carnal mindfulness.
Use your eyes,
see all forms as Buddha.
Use your ears,
hear all sounds as Buddha.
Use your nose,
savor all smells as Buddha.
Use your tongue,
taste all tastes as Buddha.
Use your hands,
touch all flesh as Buddha.
Let yourself be lost
in this passionate pilgrimage.
For in the white heat of ***,
the ego melts away,
and the animal returns.
In the unification of opposites,
there is no self.
There is only One
in this wild sea of senses.

People never die
from the uncertainty of truth.
They die from the perceived
certainty of it.
Truth with a capital T
is a weapon that kills.
The Chinese have no such
notion of Truth.
They have the Tao.
But the Tao cannot be spoken.
The Tao is silent.

I wake up this Sunday morning,
the sky is grey as it can be.
Winter has descended and
made barren all the trees.
But in my heart a gentle fire is glowing,
for last night you were with me....

The sun has set.
I watch as
darkness kisses the earth,
and my neighbors’ houses
light up one by one,
like doll houses.
Listen, and you will hear
my longing for you
turning into songs,
reverberating
in the silence
of dusk.

I have never seen your face.
I have never heard your voice.
We became friends through friend of friend.
We will probably never meet in person.
And yet…
You read my reflections every day.
You see my pictures wherever I go.
You are always there,
even in my solitary life.
Our physical distance means nothing.
You know me deeper than my “real life” friends.
You feel my pulse as I go through each day,
as I can sense your joy and sorrow.
Your comments on my postings are spot on.
They are testimonies that you know me--
my spirit, my sentiments and my thoughts.
Living our separate lives,
we nevertheless touch and commune.
Who says Facebook friendships are not real?
This is as real as it can get.