"koan" poems
The Buddha slept under the night sky on His back
eyes open; fearless love looked up. humbling the majesty
of the Void's gift.
eyes fixed... both peerless.
first among equals.
but transcendent.
The Buddha,
wearing grass-stained robes
chose a blank spot
for a blank stare
" Nowhere Girls are EveryWHERE "
He thought, astonished.
a moment after
where once He stood
there Was No
spoon.
[ PART ii ] NOT THE KOAN BUT THE KOAN THAT YOU GOT
on the X-ray zen splints were clearly spidered webs in ghost bone... how should I feel that my sensei saw the X-ray first?
life is where the answer to this question is a real thing draped in ominous clarity like a town fool, the beggar foreclosing
on your house of cards, the winged swine and some guy named Patrick having a smoke in your face; the mailman, who
always looks so serious about your trivia in a blue hat... who always trips over your precious dying very potted plants!
yes, all that, or maybe not. saute some fresh green kale in olive oil with fresh garlic
[ give it to me ] and i'll tell you that was very thoughtful, and right then;
it would also be
true.
for a minute there... you and i were typing you reading this part.
these are the diamonds.
my exposure to the radiation is everlasting in the middle of it's brief long duration
my ghost bones wear new flesh like iPod headphones, don't hate the player
[ better yet ]
make a macaroni necklace. go wild. be reckless.
it'll cost you an ounce of real kimchi
from the motherland
with the ugly
sister.
i wouldn't put it pass you. cause that would be clairvoyance, and you already know!
a loose tooth entrenched in candy apple can't taste your stupidity but has bad dreams!
some people will always look at you the wrong way and appreciate
how you sat perfectly still for hours; you only took a break to suggest
a better room with southern exposure to eastern thought.
when you threw in a Tripod, they knew you were somekinda somethin'.
and they knew it all along
but juuust wasn't
sure.
and kumquats are quantumly eaten.
Jun 7, 2013
Jun 7, 2013 at 2:22 PM UTC
Her loneliness wears maroon,
I am aware," to her yin, my yang,"
mine in deep purple echoes,
the density that's her, in my presence.
On an island of her own, she sojourns,
where there is comfortable room for two.
A happy recluse she is, ruminating,
diving deeper in to the sea of consciousness.
What does it really mean?
we are wound around a "KOAN", working on it,
wouldn't stop to think, I flow
with the insistent gravitas of the current,
Through her the dense silence speaks,
in voices clear, heard within me.
all beyond words, and in a far more
subtle plane, than this existence.
Aug 26, 2015
Aug 26, 2015 at 3:10 PM UTC
Am I drinking
the whiskey
or is the whiskey
drinking me?
Hmm...
- mce
Apr 9, 2015
Apr 9, 2015 at 9:45 AM UTC
Two of my Zen friends
who, at the time,
I thought were some kind
of Zen enemies,
seemed to condemn me
to a soap opera
of eternal cookies
and the sound of lawnmowers,
and it took me
forty-some years
to understand this koan,
and the suburban heaven
that I was condemned to,
where instead of a life
in the forest
with snakes and mosquitos,
or a life in the city
with rats and roaches,
I was given
a life in this quiet, rich suburb
with an air-conditioned summer
and a toasty warm winter,
so that surrealistic understanding
of cookie and lawnmower hell,
turned into everyday Nirvana.
Oct 6, 2011
Oct 6, 2011 at 2:11 AM UTC
***sand dollars make you crazy
so liquidate your assets
the currency of the ocean
is in the depths of its devotion
and its arrival and return
is the ultimate paradox or koan
i see whales making out with octopuses
sending us their love
from outside their esophaguses
penguins in coattails dream of Spain
while Spanish armadas chase each other's sails
armed insurgencies upon armoires from France
silent eroticisms in the shadows
of daffodils dance***
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 10:39 PM UTC
Coyote’s mournful howl echoed
in the new moon’s enchanting sultry ether;
breathing the living harmony of the wilderness rhythm
He seemed to sense a soul reincarnation
within a pervasive spirit light
an oft misunderstood
common thread shared
this hallowed land’s night
An uncommon Zen stirring from within,
stifling apathy ..,
. . . of rumble deep beneath
a dormant volcano reawakening ;
that which lies undiscovered
just before the ruptured moment ..,
liberation of release ―
dust and ashes taking flight
Through open window insomnia churns
fifty shades of blue ..,
cast in shadowed hues of broken silence
Coyote stirred the stillness
with a hauntingly familiar cry
reading the ridge-top echoes
like the book of my mind
" YIP YIP A ―W O O H !!! " . . . the somber plea
For it is in these final hours chosen chore
the recurring torn
these chains and things
Coyote was going there ―
to stand these watermark crossroads
this hour of need
Accepting brother has always been lonely
sometimes anything
means something - -
and so it goes ..,
Coyote communes in pulse
from ancient realms
this sacred blood ..,
Om
the lost chord
wounded healers ,
. . . one mutual spirit
runs marrow deep
where dogs run free
The moan of doves whisper to the impending dawn
. . . always known these days
too soon do come and gone
What once was a life well lived ,
s l o w l y e v a n e s c i n g
like the summer river’s flow
some say ..." you never miss the water
'til the well runs dry "
. . . regrets a waste of time - -
Rumination, a loathsome silent reverie
a taunting unsolved koan
an unplanned oxymoron ,
beget of a deafening silence
. . . dust sleeps with indifference
veiling a beautiful handmade
unstrung guitar
muted - - abandoned,
tone poems, unsung
and so "re-begins" the task ...
come what may rise up
into the dark star's light ...
Coyote was going there - -
a dawning metamorphosis
under another nebulous sky
. . . refreshed by Luna's potent alchemy bestrewn
in her spellbinding lambent moonlight elixir of life ...
harlon rivers ... 5. 21. 2015
Oct 20, 2017
Oct 20, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
Life is a sacred journey.
No two are the same.
Respect for divergence
is paramount
to a holistic experience.
Life
is not about
status-quo
or
expectations,
t'is simply what's made thereof
Lyphe
is a sacred opportunity
not to be taken lightly
Our Bodies
are our umbilical vessels
which tether us
as mortals
to "Reality,"
which, in itself,
seems to me to be
a reduction of potentials
from chance
to actuality
such ephemeral eternety;
infinite limitations;
actualized potentials;
possible paths-
these are but some of
the koan-like attributes
which lead me to use
the rather ambiguous
and ambitious
term "sacred."
Truly,
it becomes
whatthefucksoever
One may well will
to create thereof.
Action is Manifestation,
yet Thought begets Action.
Therein lies the sacred gift of Life.
'T'is all too oft taken for granted.
Every living being
(i am convinced)
has an equally vivid depth of experience
and I find it more than somewhat offensive
that humans (with a lowercase H)
feel they are the penultimate organism.
All is One
in that existence, itself,
tethers us all
to everything
and probably even beyond,
and so
to be so
hubristic and arrogant
as to assume a hierarchy
so convieñantly crested by mere
**** Sapiens Sapiens*
seems to me to be
an anthrocentric and narcissistic projection
of that meddlesome ages-old archetype
of the "Ego,"
that is to say "God,"
whatthefuckever that means!
Find it in thyself
to be humble enough
to accept that each and every iota of "Creation"
is, by virtue of association, equally sacred; divine.
Heirarchy, thus, seems to be a manifestation of some desire for order; control; a yearning to alleviate some hypothetical insecurity as a result of being essentially "absolute, infinite" (vis-a-vis the domain of Consciousness) yet contained within a vessel that is mortal, and, thus, ephimeral.
The Ego doth so loathe it's own limitations:
too bad it's far too arrogant to realize that most of the limitations it experiences are illusions, allusions;
charades of an insatiable Consciousness
Hell-bent on experiencing something
it won't redily allow itself to experience!
What a Holy fuckton of
incredulous, ineffable, impalpable, inspirational **** that would be, eh?! (insert interrobang)
I am me (I think...)
as thou art thee;
so why can't that just be good enough?
Could it be?
What obstruction precludes such harmonious divergence?
I reckon 't'is but us;
and very little else, indeed!
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 9:37 AM UTC
^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^^^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^ ^
{[a parachute of words to soften death
(the impact governed by an ancient rule)]
for falling slower, to allow the gaze to linger
on a beingscape of prophets, sages, and of fools,
to entertain a fantasy, a whim
or a kernal sign of epistemic limn}:
\| /
feline-dolphin friendliness to bring,
to sing of paws and fins, to fashion songs..
cut playful, caring, interspecies lens.
sprouting karmic stems at every step
with toe-gems on a koan-grounded path
on which the memories of art abound--
to measure wrath, to nard with wisdom salves
the holon vast of intra-earthling givenness
and arm the doom'ed nous with lethe-wards:
a Helm of melodies to dim the sound
of nether-chords in taunting reaper's lure;
pantheonic Plate to temper tangent blows
of glowing smoulders, darkest passion throws;
Wings of flame in kind caressing pleasure
licking high incurvate spinal moan... alone...
the tone is sure, for underworldly psalm
and biding sweep of time, aeon after aeon, eternal bone on bone,
in gales of fated nescience, the moment dawns
careening, skirrs my aether-self of lighted
purpose drawn, and telic web of wanings on...
_
Jul 18, 2012
Jul 18, 2012 at 11:32 PM UTC
"Impulse is master",
said the learned man.
"It brings disaster
to a pondered plan."
*But what about choice?
That's what I've been taught.*
Trying speech, no voice
came, instead forethought
echoed through my head:
speak, and you'll be trapped!
I sat, mute as lead;
the man, smiling, clapped.
Oct 28, 2013
Oct 28, 2013 at 5:00 PM UTC
i.
in him like the sewing needle of god’s mother; is lightning.
in you a koan.
ii.
now that she wants the surgery removed
they tell her
the womb
is a hook
that looks like a womb.
iii.
everywhere work.
stalks
pitch
the golden blood
of brooms.
iv.
mother in her rocker
her eyes
tire swings
her tongue
a cat’s tail.
v.
fourteen
my sister
martyrs herself
under the monkey
mad
in the stoplight.
vi.
in a church
hangs a coat
with a man
in it.
vii.
does not break loose
like they say
all hell.
Jul 3, 2012
Jul 3, 2012 at 2:05 AM UTC
∅ ✿ ⚤
Abortion
as a form
of extreme contraception
Mar 10, 2017
Mar 10, 2017 at 7:55 AM UTC
The dissonance in the air
visiting flashes sonically weaving trembling tales
of flash floods and brushfires. intertwined between and beneath
leathery scales, dorsal fins and rat tails.
Intimate whispered coded messages
massaging ear drum lines menacingly, scratching the passages, cruising through each hall.
tapping at every door.
With a gravely groan, reciting a indecipherable buddhist koan.
Laugh as you may
The moon will leave
Without a notice
We'll be without
Another day.
The dissonance in the air
leaving car crashes and birthday bashes in shambled states of stasis
smiling bits of shrapnel suspended in howling fits of laughter
smoldering hordes of children melting under summer suns
all while a paramedic belts out birthday songs
and a clown juggles displaced screws and cogs.
Disasters and dances have more in common than
dispatchers and discjockeys.
Feb 15, 2010
Feb 15, 2010 at 11:45 AM UTC
when the story ended before it's beginning
there wasn't any trace of anything
even on the event horizon
the creator didn't have any chance,
to make up anything
on the drawing board of his being
couldn't sense what was meant of him
the plot hasn't sprouted anywhere
in the vast field of thought fertile
so no need ever did arise to forget anything
there wasn't any apparition of good or evil, love or hate,
that'd appear on earth, fire, air, space or water; not even nothing.
Jul 2, 2014
Jul 2, 2014 at 1:13 PM UTC
*A ray of dark light,
from a distant invisible star
spotted him sitting
in the circle of
soft, silver light,
"May I too sit with you
so soothing seems
your presence
its gravitational pull
will **** me,
if i am not allowed
to be in that delight
of light"
All he did was just smile
being equanimous,
"The choice is yours
the karmic design
prompts everything
and the consequences
of your action would
come back to you
like your pet canine"
without a word he
told this to starlight,
went back to his reverie
on being and nothingness
"What's the nature of light
in the heart of darkness?"
was his present "koan"
and then,
a disembodied voice,
called out to him
like from a well of panic,
"Effulgent being"
it lamented, "I lost myself,
seeing your kind aura
I forgot my real self
I am a light, but, dark
now I am lost without a trace,
I don't find myself, help"
"Enlightened being"
said the one with focused mind,
I am not a messiah, just a
seeker like yourself
You had a quest,
that transformed you
made sublime,
you are there by rights,
have become one
with the silver light eternal,
even at the heart of darkness
you cherished a drop of light
love it was distilled from pain.
Look inside and see,
you are that, not darkness,
I am still on my way
be tranquil, I am blessed
touched by your heart."*
Apr 1, 2014
Apr 1, 2014 at 8:45 AM UTC
The other day in a bar
a young man threw down,
called me out, and Said,
"How do you
become a poet,
oldtimer?"
I sat my bourbon down,
looked him dead in the eye,
thought I might fling
an impossible koan
to take him out,
but instead I answered.
"Listen close and I'll tell you true.
It's all in the Muse, kid.
Not a muse; The Muse.
The only Muse for you.
And you'd better start looking now
because it can take your whole life."
I finished my drink.
"Next time," I said," ask me why
the bridge flows, but the water
is motionless."
He sat stunned,
philosophically
out-gunned.
I sat my empty glass down
and slowly walked away.
Another notch on the handle
of my Karma pistol.
No matter how good you are,
they just keep coming.
~mce
Apr 26, 2015
Apr 26, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC
Gout.
I have heard of this obscure disease
Maybe in a Dicken's Novel once
A disease of indolence and wealth
Of red meat and alcohol
Of excruciating pain with no cure.
It winds up being in
The top ten most excruciating conditions
And my husband of 28 years has it big time
We are neither indolent or lazy
We don't drink hardly at all
We have almost no risk factors
Now this gout is chronic
Driving my husband from sleep
To the ER at 3 am this morning
Try prednisone this time. Sigh.
Aging is not fun
There is something as bizarre
As chronic gout
Who would ever guess
Such a weird thing
When you are 25?
I feel entirely powerless to help
Other than to pick up the slack
Do more chores,
Bring him pillows or an ice pack.
Enjoy your youth because
We are feeling it at only 53
The Buddha says we will all suffer
We all become older.
We all get sick
We all die
The mastery lies
In having pain, without it
Turning into suffering
But you can meditate a lifetime
On one koan
And still never achieve
Liberation.
When I was young I took it for granted
Smooth muscles gliding past each other
Tolerance for imperfect situations
And a general ease about life.
If I had to do it over again
I would have appreciated
My youth more than I did
Now that it is gone, it is most
Revered,
like the Buddha.
Maybe next lifetime
Sep 18, 2015
Sep 18, 2015 at 4:03 PM UTC
Sylvie, I am alone here
doing nothing, except
thinking about you,
in a meditative trance.
It's a beautiful feeling Sylvie
strange, I don't miss you,even!
I imagine you as an awakening flower
of changing colors and petals
You are in a whirl of realization.
Then a lone tree you are,
near a vast,waveless lake
what an intriguing koan,
to churn my inner sea.
You're nowa drifting white cloud
all through the kaleidoscopic shifts
I forget to think,what would I be
in relation with your whims,spectacular
Beyond apparitions, I search for meaning
that eludes, as it is fathomless
I hear the song of the lonely star, so near
and realize,"I am the light of the burning star"
Sylvie, I can't remember
neither you nor me exactly
or the distant star that sings
a song in the tunes of light years
You were from the forest, Sylvie
I used to be the mountain wind
that once caressed the forest trees.
Sylvie, we are one; the imagination
of the waves of light, beyond time.
Jan 1, 2017
Jan 1, 2017 at 11:31 AM UTC
*What did your face look like
before your parents were born?*
-zen koan
When I was a seven I wore a mask for the first time,
the head of a lion, hand-painted,
whiskered and grinning.
That night I prowled my childhood
neighborhood, clawed at doors,
took candy from strangers.
The world was small then, my face
encased in cardboard, thin slits for eyes,
and still I remember, even at seven,
sailing inwards, watching the dance of a candle
flickering in the belly of a gourd.
I watched it shift shape, twitch
to reinvent itself again and again,
capable in that green dim night
of blooming into anything--
cliff birds rising on warm
volcanic swells,
a fox in the forest, cackling
on its back in the ferns.
I grew light,
knew that I too was ember,
flickering mystery,
neither boy nor lion.
Jan 4, 2013
Jan 4, 2013 at 1:05 PM UTC
What came first, the subject or the predicate?
"I am."
The shortest sentence.
Why can't I just forget it yet?
Both It and I meant for this
(the that which made this way).
Both It and I sent this self to blossoms and decay.
Relentless,
the fray.
Dec 12, 2013
Dec 12, 2013 at 2:59 AM UTC
The fluid ease of which one becomes
Always is
Never eternal
It will transform
The moment after
What you are
Becomes what you do
Temporal guests
Moving through
A house of falling leaves
Uniform in fate
Stillness in doing
Feelings there aren't words for
Directions there isn't space for
Syntax in the procession of time
and the world speaks of complexity
in countless ways
articulating every syllable
with the acute sharpness
of an atomic clock
right on the beat
for a song
of
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 3:34 AM UTC
Koan conundrums -
All phenomenona derive
From life's blushed presence
Jan 17, 2016
Jan 17, 2016 at 12:09 PM UTC
I lost a battle
when I was hiding
with you—
casualties made way
for false saviors,
sweet lovers—
*** and snow,
that froze the pain.
You never said no—
not ever
not once
to me.
—A butterfly emerges
without permissions—
you might have said
(if you had said
anything at all).
You were that type—
that wide river,
that spanning branch
—a zen koan wrapped
in flesh
One fall evening
I stumbled through
the roses,
was bitten by the thorns
came clattering in,
fell limp on the
corduroy cushions.
You smiled,
always smiling—
serene like the Dali Lama
or some other
bullshit
you never said
anything—
till you did.
And when you spoke
I heard
the truth of it
the truth of it
the horrible truth of it
thank you
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 9:30 PM UTC
smashbook wasn't nearly as offensive
with its objectifying koan-click--
on and on, smash after smash
you sit here, and here, and here
angry soldier, oversexed boxer,
underpaid, overworked mexican
what will my face look like once i am born?
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 2:52 AM UTC
a skinny boy with long hair
mid
koan
leaves me
his imagination.
my mother
shaving her head
with a lollipop.
Nov 28, 2012
Nov 28, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC