"samsara" poems
big sweaters, ghibli, acrylic paint, cafes, knit blankets and unplanned afternoon naps on the couch, gardens, bananas, vanilla almond milk, soft yarn to crochet into ****** scarves, candles after midnight, the big trees with bulky roots, patio furniture, pianos in random buildings, the internet, manatees, the boundless colours of nail polish, peanut butter & honey, rubber boots, pens that write well, fresh new notebooks, skylights, american netflix, mothers that understand, tête à têtes, one glass of sweet white wine, awkward eye contact that turns into comfortable kissing, airplanes, fresh air, baseball caps, the female collective, the really good dark chocolate, flowers, pumpkin spice lattes and ***** chai lattes, candid laughter, yoga, oceans, high waisted shorts, striped t-shirts, docile cats, playful pups, french presses, integrity, sunscreen, meerkats, penguins, chameleons, autumn leaves, fall fashion, ruby woo mac lipstick, osho, dynamic meditation, compassion, siblings, scrambled eggs, smart phones, garageband, metronomes, hot glue guns, quinoa, ferry boats, soft hands, bicycles, real people, fat snowflakes in ample, graceful ********** backpacks that don't hurt your shoulders, hair conditioner, multi-vitamins, soft sand under bare feet, people that own up to lies, clarity, samsara, satori, samasati, visions, echinacea, lavender oil and frankincense, ambrosia apples and ripe avocados, authenticity, Morgan Freeman's voice, good kissers, ******* iced tea on a hot day, curtains, the smell of beeswax, art galleries, hand massages and foot massages, reiki, plums, mild thunderstorms, soccer ***** good surprises, when birds don't **** on your head.
Oct 9, 2013
Oct 9, 2013 at 7:24 AM UTC
My leg hurts
The jaws of this inhumane trap engulf my lower shin
I have the tool to disarm it and free myself
But I muttle in my adolescent egocentric pain
Caught within monotonous routine and self interest I rot like my peers
I've sunk to a level of self loathing, that I enjoy pulling myself down
I
Am
Disgusting.
I
Need
Help.
I cry for things I can give myself but alas I withhold it to feel sorry for myself
Me and my fellow youth
Equally as useful, equally as useless
Although I am free of the crowd I am still blinded by my adolescence
Purpose
Interest
Intellect
Great-fullness
Peacefulness
Generosity
Love
PURPOSE
all I've know is I am here to be a vessel for knowledge and indoctrination
I am here to have an opinion I voice, but does not matter.
I do not matter.
This function is welded to me
However...
The voice of destiny reasons with me again and I hear:
Seek what's within
Garrot it.
Place yourself into the walls of meaning and the murals upon't
Serve others in selflessness. Share with others in selflessness. Learn from others in selflessness. Teach others in selflessness.
Your a pawn in the samsara. Do your duty within its game.
Gain higher consciousness so you can share the path to it. Become a giver, not a taker.
Interest
Intellect
Great-fullness
Peacefulness
Generosity
Love
Six lessons left, define yourself within them. Or perish within your self indulgent pitiful hole.
Feb 15, 2019
Feb 15, 2019 at 5:13 AM UTC
Don’t know how it started,
or if it’ll ever end,
some call it Samsara,
others call it trends,
watched a video on YouTube,
Mac Miller in bed with Ariana Grande,
Mac died last week from an OD/suicide,
after Ariana got engaged to another man,
then I Googled this,
**** photos of Ariana Grande”,
what’s the matter with me why does everything lead,
to having my thing in my hand,
swear to God YouTube is the Devil,
got me to watch screens,
used to have more freedom,
because I didn’t own a TV,
but laptops just made it all too easy,
now I barely go out,
and when I do it’s usually just for food,
then it’s back to my bed or my couch,
laid up like I’m ill,
typing on my MacBook like an addict,
I mean how do you think I wrote this poem,
I wrote it by typing on my MacBook like an addict,
and I don’t know how it started,
or if it’ll ever end,
some call it Samsara,
others call it trends…
∆ LaLux ∆
Sep 23, 2018
Sep 23, 2018 at 10:13 AM UTC
I see the sunrise over sin,
Repress what I did once again.
Shadows me like its prey,
Lurching out of me eagerly.
I see the sunrise over sin,
It’s boiled over once again.
Scolding from white hot shame,
My guilt has the power to lame.
I see the sunrise over sin.
Push it down before it begin.
The moon rise over blame,
She brings clarity and aim.
I see the sunrise over sin,
Connects us all a kin.
Judge others harshly without perceptivity,
Ignorant of the hypocrisy.
I see the sunrise over sin,
Should **** someone but who’s in?
Let’s all perish together again,
Cleanse this place of our contagion.
I see the sunrise over sin.
Let’s live samsara again.
Improve from the last time.
Not just a rhyme.
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 11:26 AM UTC
Whats this world coming to
Paranoia all around
Creeping up but slipping down
The melodrama hurts me
Is this the way it should be
I question our existence
Illusory immaterial junk
Inching through the samsara
Satori says I'm not really here
Senseless matter sitting idly
In a tiny corner of dharma
Overwhelmed unimaginably by
It all.
Dec 26, 2009
Dec 26, 2009 at 8:24 AM UTC
i still feel like my purpose is higher
than what i’m living now.
i’m supposed to be swinging in the breeze,
reflecting time,
changing perspectives as a bird,
living in anemones.
how is that i have turned into a secondary color?
i’m more of a roadblock to human life,
my cycle is to serve, support, and help move on. be a learning experience, to help one grow.
i think my soul was put into the wrong vessel,
maybe i was supposed to be a tree (as my name suggests)
or a bird or fish.
or maybe something much more discreet like branches on a tree, or myelin from a mushroom (to help connect).
that’s me: in time, in reality, in relativity. in the womb, out the womb. i’m supposed to be woven into nature and out of sight, not supposed to be heard, behind the scene, hushed stage crew.
but then you try and take me and make me the star of your scene.
maybe that’s where i’m supposed to be, in space, in a star, or maybe a star. to burn out after years, and bloom again (like a flower, since stars and flowers and us are very alike.)
yeah that’s all i am, shades of colors and soft dust. star dust. distant yet so close.
if you love me and hold me, i’ll be okay if you leave me. for i am not supposed to be here.
I’m supposed to limpid, colorful, and skyey;
die in winter, born in spring.
That is supposed to be me (for eternity).
May 4, 2018
May 4, 2018 at 6:05 PM UTC
When I die
plant me like a seed at the roots of a willow tree
so that I may be reborn amongst Her roots,
and travel to the tips of Her ever swaying leaves;
Let me fervently fight the stillness of death,
forever whipping and lashing,
together,
with Her branches.
May 18, 2023
May 18, 2023 at 2:27 PM UTC
Im tryna
Build a house of gold
But its a straw world, where dey
Freely give diseases and sell antidotes
World, INC.
Commercialised population control
No sovereign man, no sovereign state
Big Bank make the rules
The police are corporate agents
And prisons are big business
Under a government
That's been bankrupt for a century
My straw man is a Trust,
"MY NAME" in all caps on a certificate
As a Citizen
My assets, labour, and energy
Was promised as commerce to back this fictional entity
The fight is perpetual as long as we concede with this system
Really,
Is suicide escape or submission?
Wana vow to my people
To be there when they awake but its hopeless
*** in the near and distant future
I can see no changes
Fake smiles as a hypocrite
And all I can do is injustice
As long as I accept it
Is Man the peak of expression,
And is samsara his polarity?
In a non-meta way I aint happy
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 5:02 PM UTC
From noticing comes attraction
from attraction comes desire
from desire comes touching and tasting
from touching and tasting comes craving
from craving comes attachment
from attachment comes expectation
from expectation comes disappointment
from disappointment comes resentment
from resentment comes pain
from pain comes anger
from anger comes frustration
from frustration comes unhappiness
from unhappiness comes isolation
from isolation comes loneliness
from loneliness comes despair
from despair comes boredom
from boredom comes silence
from silence comes acceptance
from acceptance comes healing
from healing comes a new life
and then from that new life comes noticing
and from noticing comes attraction
and from attraction comes desire
and if you are lucky
you recognize the game.
Dec 23, 2011
Dec 23, 2011 at 11:24 PM UTC
orange juice and a rabid flight
of love for you but not the kind
of love requiring either bent
over the counter. the kind
of love where what is one
is alls'. is everyones', is
everything and there is never
one - either side - going wanting
for our emotions shared are
those mutually lost in the greater
mass of what humanity has
culled into their concept of
social awareness and some
chick ranting about the collective
consciousness. they're evil, or so
told. and onward, always forward
but never straight to remember
a perpetual motion of the hands
controlled by the soul -
that's what's called the mind these days.
forgone, for a single word,
far gone and lost in the wind with
sails ripping from the flushed canvas
swollen by the trade winds -
not those trade winds, but ours.
our conversation and appreciation,
and this allegory - metaphor more likely -
is of the soul being the true vessel
when the vessel is the last vessel,
and to please the dying vessel,
repeat in infinity this ******* cycle
of Samsara. en eternal vessel of meat
ground fine to be filtered through
silicone. this is our ship, this spurned
burger of muscles that succumbs
to parasites finding us pork.
eat the **** gain the trich unlike caring
Canadians who destroyed the
pig in them. destroyed the mentality of
what is wrong but quit? why ever try
for greater, and learning is not an
end to a means. and again the souls
vessel - allegorized Ulysses proper -
is in metaphor a ship, breath the trade
winds and wisdom precious cargo.
the null are bandits, the haired beast
of both the North and South . .
barbarous action through organization
and labeling of existence as A to B,
as A to Z, and realize that means
twenty-six is the end.
Mar 22, 2013
Mar 22, 2013 at 8:00 AM UTC
out of beautiful spirals of dna
I'm so glad they settled on you
my sweet scientist
my clever clover
my favourite pair of genes.
If we chose our samsara
If I could bring you back
and you could bring me back,
I'd do this again.
And again.
I wouldn't change a single thing about you.
I wonder how many lives I've already spent loving you?
Happy Birthday, darling.
Apr 16, 2013
Apr 16, 2013 at 1:06 PM UTC
Kindly trade your voice in exchange for my happiness, my child.
For motherhood is a cold and barren place, filled with nothing but loneliness and regrets. The warmth I was promised with is but a sweet nothing.
You see my child; my mother too left me with an emptiness waiting to be filled.
I was lured by the premise of a faraway place where this heart of mine shall never stop feeling full, a beautiful garden of roses. But alas; thorns and crimson colours akin to blood were all I found.
But not to worry, you too shall have your turn at happiness, my child.
Maybe not now, nor soon, but maybe in the distant future – for you too has been left with the same emptiness in your heart as me. You too shall be seduced by the same warmth i was once promised; a desperate yearning for happiness.
It is not yet your turn.
And so for now, just let me have mine.
Oct 30, 2022
Oct 30, 2022 at 11:17 AM UTC
Every time
I start anew,
or decide
to leave,
without fail I arrive
at a new beginning.
Every start
is an end-
of something.
Each arrival,
culminates in a departure,
fallen in to the cycle of
'samsara'
vagrant mind, plays
creates illusions;
ends and beginnings.
When the karma wheel completes its circles,
without thinking, consciousness merges with
the ocean of eternal being
arrivals and departures mean nothing,
If
consciousness is still and unmoving, in the point between
birth and death.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 8:44 AM UTC
is suffering
with boulders on your eyelids;
splinters in your chest
and then finding perfect sight and a calm breath
that is samsara
Aug 26, 2013
Aug 26, 2013 at 3:06 AM UTC
The warm autumn breeze
scatters the leaves
like spring snowflakes
I carefully hand stack
them each by color,
one by one,
as if they were
befallen dreams
or
similarly unholdable
gathered
garnered memories
•
each leaf touched
reminds me
of how many times
I've had to let go ―
how many times
I've fallen
without a place to land
until the winds of change
drew me back up
as if I were
evanescent autumn leaves,
to be swept away again,
touched by the spirit
the true nature
of love
• •
sown seeds of one love
bestrewn hopefully,
thusly cast about
just as intended,
the grain and chaff together,
sifted by the velvet breath
of the samsara wind's
sanguine touch
• • •
autumn waters ... October 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017
Oct 29, 2017 at 12:09 PM UTC
looking up looks good on you,
you weren’t of this world,
your heart was beyond the realms of reason,
a ray of sunshine returns to its source today,
continuing to shower her light on life as she did for 84 years.
Looking up looks good on you,
you make mortality beautiful with such celestial hues,
bringing peace to the plants you tended,
solace to the animals you fed,
and warmth to the hearts you touched.
looking up looks good on you.
Watching her as the last breath had already left her grasp… to see a light cease… was a conflicted reality. She was there — but gone. Finally freed from the cycle of samsara. Touching her face, seeing the color wash away the pains of yesterday, and feeling her body chill to a gruesome cold… it was in that moment I realized she won’t complain i’m cold anymore. She will warm and light up the sky with her smiles now.
Mortality is but a fickle yet omnipresent reminder to cherish each moment as it scatters past our horizons. It is but a gentle reminder to hold onto hugs a minute longer, savor a conversation a sentence deeper, and sit in the sunshine till dusk greets our departures. It is in the everyday we remain rooted in the reality of what lies hidden in the inevitable. Thus, in the moments mortality beacons at our doorstep — sending the gruesome chill of conclusion up your spine — cherish the warmth that radiates within your waking breath. It is in the inhale and exhale we seldom forget the gift of today that is bestowed on our conscious.
The ability to create, to debate, to deliberate on the topics that itch our fascination lies within mere moments of the now. She taught us to immerse ourselves in the ravishing splendor that life is because the inevitable looms above us all. Such a kindred spirit was she, a woman with a heart of gold. A soul that radiated in a light blind to the common eye. She held onto a glow that constellations graced — a burning light in of herself.
looking up looks good on you.
Dec 1, 2023
Dec 1, 2023 at 10:37 PM UTC
The day after my Aunt Ro died
a doe approached within a few feet
as if confused about where she was
and what she should be doing.
I could neither comfort nor advise her.
I let her be not considering until later maybe
I had witnessed the transmigration of a soul.
But in the end I applied Ockham’s razor—
you rarely see what you believe.
A mile further along my morning stroll
I was greeted cheerfully by a flock
of cedar waxwings I always consider it a blessing
to encounter. Such social, amiable beings
I hope Aunt Ro will join, so sure are they of who they are—
Jul 16, 2024
Jul 16, 2024 at 7:46 AM UTC
Alternating baskets of good fruit and bad fruit
the seeds are what we're after
and all we ever wanted
was a tree
to come to time after time and
have to call our own
the fruit is sweet as wine
intoxicating as sweet time
taking us away to a different place
while the world moves past us
outside the window of the car
it never feels as fast as it is
we slow down to accomodate
the feelings we're feeling
the dreamings we're dreaming
and the road keeps insinuating itself
under our wheels
another day
another dollar
and we hope the destination is worth it
I'm just trying to find a ride to work
so I'll have something to do today
and something to drink in two weeks
I suppose that's the farthest I'll look ahead from now on
That and the party that I know will happen on
such and such a date
Two weeks spent waiting
and slaving
for a paycheck trophy
that opens up the doors
of the convenience store
And I'll move in among the crowd
Purchase an egg sandwich
and a pack of smokes
and go along with the eternal drama
for one more day
I'd love to be on the outskirts right now,
when I have to do the grunt work
I'd love to be on the edge of the galaxy
watching it all spin and spiral
from afar
Appreciating the grand scheme of things
[This is key to my existence]
and I can easily get caught up
in the stubborn sighs
and drunken claims
but at the end of the day
I sit, and I wait
for the master plan to reveal itself
for the chance to say hello
to the person I think I am
for the chance to fall in love
just one more time
for the ocean to swallow me up
and tell me it's okay
to feel the way I feel
and that everything I do
is for the best
and I'll be nurtured by waves so sincere
and I'll be sure of myself for one more day
and I won't **** up the master plan
with incoherent human ramblings
on destiny and the way things have gone
and will go in the future
Do me a favor dear,
don't listen to a single thing I say
because I don't know a thing
and I know it
Just rock me to sleep so gently. . .
So slow that neither of us notice
the motion of the earth
spinning through space
So slow
that everything stands still
and I can finally rest
Jan 8, 2013
Jan 8, 2013 at 2:00 AM UTC
Ya,
I got my limits
Been here since
hell and back
breathless from carrying Blood and flesh
Bone-World curved to welcome back
Shape-dependent gimmicks tracing
fresh tension lines followed right on track.
Invisible Limits..... / / / / .......
Can't see em, so I cant follow back
Right on track, tongue-tied and strapped up
with a strep throat still, its my turn to step up
else Lady luck might step back, all clammed up
**** I Just hoping this note will...
Curse hope, bless action
See its My cipher to rap now
My meaning to unpack; but how?
Courage and Care is a fact plowed
Strength in the face of what we can bear
Samsara, its a Wheel of time turning back now
The only time I show me limits is always
Vulnerable. still hanging in ghetto hallways
Your place safe and sound, you need but call me
I show me, I mean all ME. I mean All Men, I mean Amen. Ah man...
Living shadow, ghost abode, the heart just saying love me
love me, love me, love me, lord. Keep me warm.
I've never been so cold as looking at the tribe
around the fire's with that fine glow.
Where Freezing feels like final.
breathless from carrying
Bone, Blood and Flesh, flush chested
Do your best, Dont love any less
See your smile, its a breath
to me ...(and Im swimming seas till im Seasick, waves painting a scene sick)
Those curves like Pieces of music,
Kicking hard as I can swimming like im Sea-kick
movement aligned to life and death.
my hide or hair, which can these save?
Music lines and strings of words, its like church to all of us
You see its Cake or death
not willing to lose it, like the chirps of birds seem to follow up
as the morning fights for breath.
Feb 14, 2022
Feb 14, 2022 at 7:52 PM UTC
Each day dawning would
gift me new eyes of wonder,
right from my childhood
a friend, from this lone and lonely tree,
I'd fervently hope for something different,
rushing to the window,
I view that elegance
as the first auspicious thing
to gaze at, as the custom suggests.
After the morning light creates a pool
above the verdant hills at the east,
yet again a regular ritual,
the tree is my magical yard stick
by which I measure myself,
a mysterious pact between us
existed, deep in mind, I had felt
only we know between us
even if the breeze says, that aloud often.
In her presence every thing becomes clear.
As I watch the tree, as usual
after the repetitions of long
years of rain, shine and mist in between,
what I saw that moment was different:
On every branch seeking light,
bristled flowery wonders
songbirds, absent till the day before
in droves sat all over the crown,
in unison singing her paeans sonorously,
purple rays of morning sun
adorned each leaf, in colorful embrace.
Wasn't it the moment I was yearning for?
I stood filled with it's effulgence,crown to root
the connection in an instance, becomes clear,
there is no secrets left unsaid between us any more--
In a flash , a golden window opens in inner chamber
I feel free from, the bindings of all mundane desires
as one rows the boat, the miseries of Samsara,
the treacherous rapids, are left behind for ever.
Isn't it enlightenment, at the moment
seeking me unassumingly through my open windows?
Jun 28, 2017
Jun 28, 2017 at 2:49 PM UTC
The suit in question
Is grey. Pin-striped white.
Double-breasted. Three piece.
Blue tie, grey hatching.
An absolute nightmare to change into.
I drop my jeans
In the monastery stall,
Shed my shoes.
Old friends.
The trousers, slacks,
Rise morning fog
And sleep in the stratus
Of my waist.
I really wonder how
The men of the then
Could have worn them.
So much taller.
So much grander.
So much straighter.
White shirt with
The butterfly tracks,
Make-up stains
From a billion ancestors.
Dead relatives that don’t
Respond to the call.
I take their places
Without a single
Crumb of guilt,
O feel the guilt.
The vest. Easy enough.
Yeast but grey and it
Rises horizontally.
I’ve just noticed pockets
Sewn into maddening teases.
The barest suggestion
Of an opening.
It holds like the bowl of the moon.
The coat. The great monarch.
Organizer with a clipboard
Ensuring the quality
Of a burlesque of silk.
So strange.
So other.
So queer.
In a minute or two, the
Hyperhydrosis.
It really is my only hope
Of describing my true temperature.
I will ignite in a biological
Soliloquy that can
Pronounce all those tricky
Thoughts I’ve given up
For the stage.
Gentle gravity,
Cruel crushing backhand.
Burst my complexion,
Steal my aqueous words.
Again, this suit.
How many Lomans,
Bankers, adjudicators,
Businessmen and Babbits
Have lived out their deaths
In you?
Brave rain cloud,
Where is your lining?
I feel the quip swelling
And project it to the back wall:
Only the costume knows true reincarnation.
Apr 9, 2010
Apr 9, 2010 at 1:21 PM UTC
Your touch fractures unwound futures,
the softest shock to my system. Infinite
undiscovery radiates off skin like new born
stars skipping straight to supernova. Light
grenades blind, deafen, expose. Truth blurs
focus. We now know what the body is for.
I sabotage and we crash into earth, incinerating
the atmosphere, restarting cycles. We forget our
odd numbered days exist. Our catastrophic collapse
was the best of my life. For a split second I am now
one as He is three, looping unopposed into life
and death like continuous screaming nothing.
For that, I wish I could thank you.
Sep 15, 2012
Sep 15, 2012 at 6:37 PM UTC
I don’t play my mandolin everyday anymore,
let alone my guitar or tin whistles
I can’t let this die
I listened to 7 year old Japanese math rock
and want just a speck of that
An identity where I can sift right through
all this mediocre destruction all around
No one even has the gall to admit they’re killing
or the decency to even cover it up anymore
They videotape themselves dancing and
murdering kids for lebensraum
then turn around and say “no we’re not”
I’m tired of surface level house maintenance
followed by immobile phone scrolls
I’m looking for that lesson we’ll all learn
after finally going too far
I won’t play the victim or the hero no more
I did my part and now I’m too old
I need deeper art to escape samsara for good
and maybe that’s the best I can do comrades
I’m sick of details grown so scattered and thin
My whole past feels like entrails
smeared across vast deserts
There used to be rainforests here
but now it’s hard to find the pictures
Just when things almost get too competent and nice
they let decadence do its worse
out of fear that the improvements would make goods and services
too cheap not to be free
Socialism’s bad for business owners
so we lay off the workers and overcharge even more
Let the octogenarian billionaires buy up more water and air
to keep the fellas in the favelas gnashing and grim
Bunker complexes, spaceships, missiles coated in spent uranium;
these are all more important than starving children
Why do the poor keep having poor kids?
Still a conundrum
We gave them a chance to compete
some ephemeral time ago and they blew it
What can we do?
We tried to teach a man to fish…
Imagine Jesus Christ just giving folks fish and bread
for nothing in return?
Jan 26, 2024
Jan 26, 2024 at 3:27 PM UTC
Herein lies catacombs of ages past
Where sanguine spread from the lashed spine
And coated echoing halls of their superior peer
Below the shredding tempers of a desert wind.
Omnipotent fires of archaic Gods
Charring the souls of petty architects
Slaved under their jeweled prophets
Were not the scribe's footnotes of time.
Aug 30, 2015
Aug 30, 2015 at 5:42 PM UTC