"shambhala" poems
Tibetan Brimstone butterflies wave wings madly at their paradise valley
In the beginning, before the beginning, and in the beginning
Their shaken snow globe makes them flutter in wild exuberance
As they reveal a mountain, then no mountain, then Kunlun again
Peace, followed by chaos, and then by peace
Mother Luna's kaleidoscope of enlightenment
Protected by the hooded one
Holds all worlds and shakes the four seasons
Nothingness, creation, abiding, destruction
The wheel of time
Moves the wind as it’s blown by vast circles of water
Aqua marine is washed again by golden earth
And in the center, the great opal mountain song of La
Nature's peace
Beyond white leopard snows, icy winds, and empty husks of death
Butterflies are born again
Shambhala’s mindful beat opens passage for light through darkness
Poets squint and ride on wings toward the hidden sunset kingdom
Watching another world's Avalon alive beneath a blue moon
Insulated chrysalis of love for all seasons
A fisherman, a carpenter, a shepherd, a merchant, a caterpillar
Discover a lush, isolated, peach grove
Nosing thickly scented nectar and purple primrose honey
In the jade valley of the kings, queens, and beggars
They meditate under the Bodhi Tree
Deep brown ****** lines are carved into their soft olive skin
Smooth hands are made rough, and then smooth again
Young, then old, and then young once more
Wisdom setting beside Queen Spirit Mother of the West
Sharing a bowl of her rice milk in harmony
Being in the realm between man and nature as Kalachakra turns
For six years the caterpillar eats of fig
And then the wheel breaks for flight one last time
Radiating light as she sheds her glorious wings
Here, the snow globe explodes flying petals of wild exuberance
Revealing a mountain, then no mountain, then Kunlun again
Transcending all, turning tears into the suns joyful rays
As they rise, then set, and then rise again
Nirvana
Beyond our Lost Horizon
© 2019 MJL
Apr 2, 2019
Apr 2, 2019 at 10:01 AM UTC
back on the railroad
caught between the current
and the cold
how is it ol' Cassady died?
they say he rode the tracks
all the way to Avalon
say it was exposure
that got him in the end
secobarbital and second hand smoke
waiting on a wet sunrise
that never came
counting railroad ties
half way to infinity
hell of a way to go
the hero of two generations
hell of a way to go
not with a bang
--as they say--
no one there to hear the whimper
4am ticket to shambhala
Hank gave up the grief
weeks before he died
crippled and old
poor *******
Bukowski could
hardly walk
down those hallways
to hell
maybe Hem did it best
Ti Jean died from that almighty
weight on his shoulders
unhappy with a dead liver
and a dead spirit. yes,
Hem did it best it seems
him and Hunter
--football season is over--
felt the world
slipping out
quick as it came
so they both put a
quick one to the brain
all of my old friends
are dead now
one way tickets to Shangri-La
I see them
they all walk the tracks
but they don't wait up
they don't wait up
light one for me
Hank
I'll be there soon enough
Mar 4, 2013
Mar 4, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
I put on the tea kettle
and turn up the stove
put a tea bag into my cup
and begin walking
in a diagonal direction
with each step
being with each breath
and my hands over
my heart
with my thumb inside
the right hand
so I take a slow walk
and come back to the stove
and the water is ready
then into the cup
goes the water
so then I walk again
twice this time
and the tea is done.
I have given up
the powerful way
of Zen
for the way of Shambhala
where we breathe easy.
Dec 21, 2011
Dec 21, 2011 at 7:24 AM UTC
The night sky is
staring back at you.
You're checked out.
It's all gone to hell.
Bought a one way ticket
halfway to Shambhala.
The Christmas lights in
the tapestry above flicker
and fade out of conscious
thought. The moon hangs,
slack-jawed and silent,
shaking your shoulders as
you kneel into the pavement.
"Won't you leave me be?"
But no, he's calling the sun
and he's begging for help
********* stop it!"
They're driving you crazy.
The pavement is beautiful
against your cheek.
But here comes everything
You're flying on clouds,
and there is lights from the sun
and the moon is there, crying,
"Stop it, stop it!"
All you want is the pavement.
And your mothers screaming
through the glass. And the lights;
white and bright and cruel.
You only hear the pavement,
you only see the night sky;
staring back at you.
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
Knowledge is knowing
that you've always been seeking
Whereas wisdom is
realizing that seeking
is never-ending
I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending
I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
is just lending
I & I
for while
for to smile
Shhh
Shhhhh
I'm silent still
go back cat
to windowsill
that is that
the black will fill
my eyes
and i'll have no disguise
to hide behind
so lie will I
until
I cry
it OUT
and light!
oh light
so guiding
so graceful
a gift
is only as sweet
as the way
you embrace it
I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending I'm speaking
and pretending
that this circle
has an ending
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 3:51 AM UTC
East of the Equator on 1° 15' tropics is an old pirate isle
Irate willy-wavers are set to meet, I repeat, on Santosha
where, if you know it by its sanskrit, they might reconcile
Wishful leaders play symbolic. To us are none, but frenzy frolic.
Rudy doubles a pretty sight when smart cookie crumbles
to his knees. The apprentice, a fake gansta has capitulated to
Trump who's known to expostulate his lot of twitterati
oh, the wizard of sentences, cut the circuit and paparazzi.
Rocket man says read my lips, so Dotard threatens bigger drips
Both gaga over trigger hands, like-a-virgin on hot dozen buttons.
Ain’t it a saga, they goatherd each other on, so call in Dennis to
get us out of the funk. Just maybe, a remote chance, a fun slam-dunk!
The world awaits with bated breath, the immovable anchors to a
bad romance. We're stuck for answers to translate two gyrate minds,
singing hits a-capella under nuke umbrella. No tanning spray and
pray please or death-from-behind us all, the wrench of humankind.
At 34, Prince has just begun life, to see his people starving to die
At 71, ****** has a life doing what he does, while waiting to die
Chasms miles long, but cookie cutter share tall man phantasm
94 stories high towards disarming God in their own ego suites.
Gurkhas and gazetted city blocks, the people in uttered groans
All twitterpating over a hermit throne dancing to a jailhouse rock
Two bright like buttons, so zero sum bargains may cost an arm and
an earth - nuclear glutton! Not a far gains from your usual Target?
At St Regis in gather, string theories of riddles to Lord of the Rings
Towkays at the table “Order! Order!” no one absquatulates at all borders
In shambhala, will it be “Big and Bold” or “Beg and Hold”, who knows
Except Goldenhair, in first minute - Upside or Upset of an F1 ride!
Jun 10, 2018
Jun 10, 2018 at 2:01 AM UTC
From the Ankara of Augustus wandered,
east to the clefts of the Earth's breast:
at Shambhala i seek the tooth
from the maws of paradox,
a teaching from Lord Maitreya,
a stretching through the void of ascension.
In the cycling Kalachakra looping
step three, the divine is inside
and divides, as out so in.
As above, so below.
It claws through the pages to reach me,
and you, to strike the gong.
As within, so without.
Beyond you always,
eternally inside.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 7:44 PM UTC
Euphoria descends
when bass waves pound
feel myself ascending higher
despite two feet on the ground
eclectic, we are connected
children of the night
swaying in a lovely
conglomerating haze
obliterating the dust collected
from everyday life
i feel it with every fibre
every molecule, electrified
its like i've died and woken
found myself inside
heaven on earth?
sensory overload
no shortage of feel good vibes
lazers flash, colors strobe
front, left, center, right I see
smiling faces, warm embraces
never want to come down
my heart is in the movement
the music embedded in my soul
undeniable
i've found
paradise
and i still bask
in it's afterglow
Sep 20, 2013
Sep 20, 2013 at 1:06 AM UTC
Every dance from every heart is a flower blooming in Heaven.
May 20, 2014
May 20, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
When we observe the waves which course through us—
The inner lives that continue to go on—
Unfolding the scroll of hidden lives
Becomes the distant past.
We feed the bodies of churning water
Which span the breadth of time.
Waters which flow in close proximity
To wandering, wavering lines.
Only then, near the edge of the setting Sun—
Abound with wavering lines—
Will the doors of binding light unlock
And reveal the shores of Shambhala.
Sep 16, 2022
Sep 16, 2022 at 1:28 PM UTC
IF you follow me bring the dead along for all the children have suffered and all madmen pollute || ~~ IS GAME OVER “? between sun-beating down & STARS beating
psychotic clowns/ the pogo clown has died forever.
If you could you might adjust your eyes against all monsters that follow
…kiss me if you survive \\perishing is a buildingGRACE of reSKINNING the Soul
(oh whoa oh whoa oh wow oh no oh hey)
…just say the hardest price to pay //
are the things for free // eat and drink
remain my memory deeply between crimson &
sun-baked lips (music stretches thinner
e a c h & e v e r y d a y
carry on even if the stars extinguish
the very hurt you receive time &
space str e t c h ed pass a threshold of
mortal pain…you see and creation is reversed forward
God have mercy upon our weakened hearts
shame shame it’s the only world we have
and each other — there ain’t no denying (OH mother! No denying LIFE is a THORN against my eyes; as i bend down i try to find my BEING within a deeply yelled moan; i’m dying i’m dying i’m rolling round a desert stream — shambhala come again against trail dust and kasmir
i am waiting i am decaying i am a mote of Poet
t r aveling inside OPEN space considered: static syntax
and congealed moments upon the professional grace of unspoken
words. whoa…whoa…it’s the hardest price to pay when things
so expensive are for free.
:: 03.03.2020 ::
Mar 7, 2020
Mar 7, 2020 at 1:50 PM UTC