"ascetics" poems
Spring comes little, a little. All April it rains.
The new leaves stick in their fists; new ferns still fiddleheads.
But one day the swifts are back. Face to the sun like a child
You shout, 'The swifts are back!'
Sure enough, bolt nocks bow to carry one sky-scyther
Two hundred miles an hour across fullblown windfields.
Swereee swereee. Another. And another.
It's the cut air falling in shrieks on our chimneys and roofs.
The next day, a fleet of high crosses cruises in ether.
These are the air pilgrims, pilots of air rivers.
But a shift of wing, and they're earth-skimmers, daggers
Skilful in guiding the throw of themselves away from themselves.
Quick flutter, a scimitar upsweep, out of danger of touch, for
Earth is forbidden to them, water's forbidden to them,
All air and fire, little owlish ascetics, they outfly storms,
They rush to the pillars of altitude, the thermal fountains.
Here is a legend of swifts, a parable —
When the Great Raven bent over earth to create the birds,
The swifts were ungrateful. They were small muddy things
Like shoes, with long legs and short wings,
So they took themselves off to the mountains to sulk.
And they stayed there. 'Well,' said the Raven, after years of this,
'I will give you the sky. You can have the whole sky
On condition that you give up rest.'
'Yes, yes,' screamed the swifts, 'We abhor rest.
We detest the filth of growth, the sweat of sleep,
Soft nests in the wet fields, slimehold of worms.
Let us be free, be air!'
So the Raven took their legs and bound them into their bodies.
He bent their wings like boomerangs, honed them like knives.
He streamlined their feathers and stripped them of velvet.
Then he released them, Never to Return
Inscribed on their feet and wings. And so
We have swifts, though in reality, not parables but
Bolts in the world's need: swift
Swifts, not in punishment, not in ecstasy, simply
Sleepers over oceans in the mill of the world's breathing.
The grace to say they live in another firmament.
A way to say the miracle will not occur,
And watch the miracle.
Apr 22, 2014
Apr 22, 2014 at 1:59 PM UTC
In the darkness that dispels all hope
we fumble with meaningless insight.
What we said does not relate to what we want
and yet we embrace boundaries to punish ourselves
with unnecessary hells. Languishing in the thought
that silence will answer these loud questions.
We love because we are created to love
unconditionally.We hate because we don't understand
what vast oceans of meaning lie in love.
Silence may answer the ascetics
monastic and contemplatives but
rarely an equation for relationships.
When its grey it rains tears of knowing
where we belong and to whom we belong
in the worlds whole people. Love binds us all
in this understanding fabric of contemplation.
Yet in the darkness we find solitude
and hope in the isolation of reason.
The silence between the drumbeats
announces the rhythm of the song.
We walk in silence
yet celebrate without it.
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 19 days ago
- See more at: http://allpoetry.com/poem/11566249-Grey-Skies-by-Marshall-Gass#sthash.8dgLQUr8.dpuf
Jul 29, 2014
Jul 29, 2014 at 4:56 PM UTC
In Rājagaha the Well-Farer lectured
On wisdom, concentration, morality…
The monks listened, devoutly, calmly,
To the message replete with practicality.
On to Ambaliṭṭikā they journeyed,
To Nālandā and Pāṭaligāma as well.
The Buddha continued to spread the Dhamma--
Or teachings--at which he was known to excel.
After passing over the Ganges,
To Koṭigāma they made their way.
The Buddha repeated the Four Noble Truths
That still guide many people today.
At Nādikā the Teacher referred to the Mirror
Of Dhamma and said to always begin
By looking first at yourself to discover
The truth that lies deep within.
On to Vesālī the ascetics wandered,
Where their Master continued to share
The power and value of mindful living--
The importance of being clearly aware.
During the rains the Awakened One rested
In Beluva, where he postponed his trek.
While staying there he grew ill, but he knew
It was NOT his time, so it kept it in check.
"Live as islands," he said to Ānanda,
"With truth as a refuge. And grasp not, for I
Have always told you that all things dear to us--
Whatever is born--eventually will die."
After the rains, the group traveled
To the Great Forest--to the Gabled Hall,
And the Buddha repeated the Eightfold Path--
A message of wisdom pertaining to all.
Bhoganagara was their next stop,
And then to Pāvā the wayfarers did go.
Their host, Cunda, served "pig's delight."
The Buddha grew ill. Why? We don't know.
Despite his illness, he continued
To Kusinārā and lay down to rest.
Music sounded and flowers fell
From the sky to honor the One-Who-Is-Blessed.
"The Dhamma will now be your teacher.
Strive on untiringly. My time has passed."
After entering deep concentration
The Great One died. Those words were his last.
Thunder sounded and the ground shook--
As it does when any great teacher "goes to sleep."
The Buddha is Dhamma; the Dhamma is the Buddha.
Because of that there's no reason to weep.
The compassionate Buddha's Teachings have spread
For over two thousand five hundred years.
His Message of living in wisdom and compassion
And loving mindfulness perseveres.
- by Bob B
Oct 26, 2016
Oct 26, 2016 at 7:55 AM UTC
the pinnacle of childhood
comes with the symphony of adolescence.
the realization that life is evanescent,
the breaking of cyclical routine,
catalyzing the bittersweet epiphany
of long-awaited nirvana.
no longer blithe and naïve,
quaff from the chalice of clemency
until intoxicated with the notion
of no longer being in limbo.
the mendacious oblivion of childhood evaporates,
lifting the veil of soporific innocence,
all traces of puerility gone.
come,
enter the province of adulthood,
and live as a free soul,
no longer required to conform
to the standards of ascetics.
Sep 23, 2015
Sep 23, 2015 at 1:04 PM UTC
1. Experience Chan! It's not mysterious.
As I see it, it boils down to cause and effect.
Outside the mind there is no Dharma
So how can anybody speak of a heaven beyond?
2. Experience Chan! It's not a field of learning.
Learning adds things that can be researched and discussed.
The feel of impressions can't be communicated.
Enlightenment is the only medium of transmission.
3. Experience Chan! It's not a lot of questions.
Too many questions is the Chan disease.
The best way is just to observe the noise of the world.
The answer to your questions?
Ask your own heart.
4. Experience Chan! It's not the teachings of disciples.
Such speakers are guests from outside the gate.
The Chan which you are hankering to speak about
Only talks about turtles turning into fish.
5. Experience Chan! It can't be described.
When you describe it you miss the point.
When you discover that your proofs are without substance
You'll realize that words are nothing but dust.
6. Experience Chan! It's experiencing your own nature!
Going with the flow everywhere and always.
When you don't fake it and waste time trying to rub and polish it,
Your Original Self will always shine through brighter than bright.
7. Experience Chan! It's like harvesting treasures.
But donate them to others.
You won't need them.
Suddenly everything will appear before you,
Altogether complete and altogether done.
8. Experience Chan! Become a follower who when accepted
Learns how to give up his life and his death.
Grasping this carefully he comes to see clearly.
And then he laughs till he topples the Cold Mountain ascetics.
9. Experience Chan! It'll require great skepticism;
But great skepticism blocks those detours on the road.
Jump off the lofty peaks of mystery.
Turn your heaven and earth inside out.
10. Experience Chan! Ignore that superstitious nonsense
That makes some claim that they've attained Chan.
Foolish beliefs are those of the not-yet-awakened.
And they're the ones who most need the experience of Chan!
11. Experience Chan! There's neither distance nor intimacy.
Observation is like a family treasure.
Whether with eyes, ears, body, nose, or tongue -
It's hard to say which is the most amazing to use.
12. Experience Chan! There's no class distinction.
The one who bows and the one who is bowed to are a Buddha unit.
The yoke and its lash are tied to each other.
Isn't this our first principle... the one we should most observe?
Jan 21, 2015
Jan 21, 2015 at 11:47 PM UTC
I can not explain the taste of chaste petals
When love was blooming in beauty's scream
As sheer love heat taken over two candles
When beauty's stream took over by love beam
The entire universe was in dangle and dance
When charms and graces surpassed to bloom
The heart and soul were in alluring romance
When touch of class brought all luxury in room
Ascetics may not have that pleasure and delight
Which was in my arms after that love embrace
Their souls may not have tasted that beautiful light
Which took me over to space with enchanting grace
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Aug 30, 2016
Aug 30, 2016 at 12:07 AM UTC
Everything on this gelid morning speaks only dead languages.
Change your mind. Consider it a beguilingly blank canvas.
Slather it with the random pigments of your imagination.
Go for a stroll and practice random acts of sadistic charity.
Inhale the exquisite frondescence of naked branches.
Focus your neurons on everything you have forgotten.
********** incessantly to Mozart's Requiem. Honor his memory.
Unleash your nukes. Annihilate Canada. Destroy winter for good.
Make your lover a garland of cassowary feathers. Impress her.
Concentrate on growing horrifically profuse ***** hair.
Study the nonexistent texts of forgotten Uzbecki ascetics.
Raise fearsome armies of rabid Chinese lawn gnomes. Attack.
Try to knit String Theory while contemplating theoretical macramé.
Drink cider vinegar to defuse the carcinogenic dangers of politics.
Attempt to complete a peace treaty with gravity. Concede nothing.
Build a launch pad. Hurl rusting Ramblers into low earth orbit.
Collect ingredients. Home brew ****** absinthe and aphrodisiacs.
Test drive a luxury submarine in your neighbor's swimming pool.
Smash the endless contemporary Conga Line of Dumb. Think about it.
Surrender to uncommon sense for a change. Avoid the ordinary.
Give peace a chance. Endless war has left it lonely and depressed.
Admit that everyone is well and truly ****** Relax. Breathe.
Proclaim the advent of the poetry of the apocalypse,
but take care not to write any of it down yet. Go slowly.
Tomorrow is another day to be filled. Keep some options open.
Jan 7, 2017
Jan 7, 2017 at 9:45 AM UTC
There are places in this world that shall always turn a deaf ear to the constant dictations of earthly law and in turn, the realism that we waking souls either greet or dismiss. Our surroundings are not so limited, in that we live among shiftless ascetics and grand pillars of stability; rather they are, as we are, living embodiments of its both former and current residents. Most settings are of an alien nature and are only trifling comparisons to the true picture in all its starkness. This vision is common as we all author the visual mosaic of life with our own keen eye geared toward a more personal understanding.
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 8:12 PM UTC
The meek are in the pocket,
of the powerful,
The artist is in the pocket,
of the authority.
The authority; cops,
are in the pocket of the law,
The law is made up,
by politicians,
Their deceptive truths,
puppeteered by criminals; gangsters.
The ruthless tyrants are,
in the pocket of the
malnourished, emaciated, gaunt,
faceless demon,
Shriveled and terrifying,
pock marked arms outstretched,
Slithering up the back,
Recanted by the one,
Absolute wisdom,
Of the meek,
The beggars are in the pocket,
The vagabond fools and jesters,
The guru shaman mystic ascetics,
That journey,
Yet never set foot,
Whom hermitage,
Is a pilgrimage,
To where the Absence of mind,
Isn't Mindful,
It is just simplicity,
Sacrilegious ease,
The safety of the Pocket.
Nov 14, 2014
Nov 14, 2014 at 3:29 PM UTC
A thousand hearts could not love her like mine.
Ten million artists fail painting her smile.
Billions of galaxies dull to her shine.
The runways of Paris envy her style.
Pursuit of her beauty drives dreamers mad.
Bees wish honey were as sweet as her lips.
Her beauty exceeds what numbers can add.
She captivates men more than an eclipse.
She makes ascetics succumb to desire.
The blind cannot look away from her face.
Lust for her hotter than infernal fire.
Infinite angels less than her grace.
She’s beyond anything under the sun.
She’s more than everything and only one.
Sep 25, 2018
Sep 25, 2018 at 7:14 PM UTC
#*In silence I stood
Dazzled by
The beauty that was
And is
Faded, not lost
Of the ancient temples
The architecture, the carvings on the walls
The floral murals and the central lotus pond
Speaks of souls
Who stepped here before
Teleporting to the time
When the foundation stone was laid
The breeze
A sense of déjà vu
A silent spectator
A shelter
And has brought souls together in marriage
A witness to many wars
Coronations of kings
Kingdoms lost
Seers and ascetics
The alchemist
Under the roof
Rhythmic chants of sacred verses
The sound of the conch blowing and bell
Is it all
Of the worlds
The temple has seen
Wanting and waiting to show
Am I ready
I am yet to know*#
Jun 8, 2020
Jun 8, 2020 at 2:31 PM UTC
*we are sending out signals to other dimensions
yet we ignore the voice of our mother
nature is vocal
like a duck or a turtle
singing songs of holy madness
sad like concubines in the throes of being ravaged
damaged goods
are food for the moon
soon we are heavy like the dance floor
sidewalk mantras sung to daughters
caught between their feelings and their heartbeats
you can’t separate the world from its weirdness
for it wouldn’t make sense any longer
and why do we become shy
the moment we most desire to be seen
intangible fences separate our minds
giving thanks for the luminous divide
that synthesizes the binary world
reminds me that our struggle
to overcome division is to find
chiral asymmetry at the heart of every equation
do you truly want to know the reason
why our hands hold our souls in balance
or would you prefer to ponder
sedentary snails in the heat of summer
salty solutions produced by our intrusions
how must we maneuver in order to surrender
i confess to know nothing
and release my own expectations
i am one among many
who are merely here to say hello*
Apr 4, 2017
Apr 4, 2017 at 11:51 AM UTC
I will not perish
Because I have desired You
Only if for a moment
I might be weak
But You are the prowess of the powerful
I might be deluded
But You are the intelligence of the intelligent
I might be unable
But You are the ability in man
I might have sinned innumerable times
But You are the penance of all ascetics
Beloved Lord
My strength
You are
Please
Let me surrender
And become
Who I am
Dec 29, 2019
Dec 29, 2019 at 10:41 PM UTC
Let my fate take me to the stars
What I need is light in abundance
Please take me out of these bars
With speed of light I cover distance
No one can imprison strong jaguars
Do not challenge my sheer prudence
Never ever challenge my soul scars
am proud of my real native parlance
With divine wine fill just all my jars
Please make me victim of your glance
At times vice crops up and virtue mars
But ascetics are always in a trance
Being soldier I boldly face all wars
In burning flames I know how to dance
My enemies should know the centaurs
Love is real fire not ashes of romance
Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2016 Golden Glow
Jun 27, 2016
Jun 27, 2016 at 3:07 AM UTC