Of building houses there is no end
with bricks and feelings thoughts and mind,
that clings and sticks and binds.

Lovers spin webs for castles,
conquerors ancestral halls,
angels their heavenly mansions,
demons their prison walls.

Actors that tread the boards
and actors on the street
have studied how to speak their lines
and where to put their feet.

Each is his own creator
entangled with his own conceits
by turns both arrogant and cowed.


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The Serpents dance hypnotically
filling the Void with Thought.
And in their game of wish-fulfillment
the Sons of Man are caught.

Slaves to the Dream Creations,
en-flamed by its Hot Desires,
craving ever-new sensations,
singed by the Ancient Fires,
they sink
from brightness into embers
from cinders into dust,
with which they fashion ever new surrenders
for their never cooling Lust.

In their high empyrean mansions,
the Masters watch
and pass down from Perfect Peace –
living, trans-sangsaric ladders
for the burning souls’ release.


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Freedom from the Past
is the Present.
Freedom from the Future
is the Present.

The Present
is a crack that runs
through the universe.
Into it everything disappears
like snowflakes
into a bonfire.

For Māra’s people,
the Present
is a mental space
filled with memories,
thoughts of the Future,
sense impressions
and a random stream of thought.

In the gap between thoughts,
the real Present can be seen
like the sun at noon
through dusty cobwebs
blazing in a clear sky.
(Or slept through.)


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Leaves from the Tree of Life;
brown and withered,
dried with growing old,
dislodged by the touch of Time;
or green,
with veins still swelling
with rising sap,
torn free by an untimely wind.

What are they,
these dancing treasures?

The more the tree creates,
pushing and budding
out of reaching, branching fingers,
the more they spiral down
and spin and congregate
like giant midges
in every gust and eddy.

What are they,
these dancing treasures
from the Tree of Life?

Thoughts. Thoughts. Thoughts.

Each contains in its form
the whole tree.
Each contains in its form
the denuded tree
cannot do without.

Spiralling, spinning,
they clog drains
and streams
and waterways;
make paths treacherous.
Good for nothing
but rotting down
and feeding
the insatiable hunger,
the thousand breathing mouths
of the sangsāra!


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Gossip and slander
is pouring water
on the earth.

A knife scraping a stone
does not bruise it.

Even Buddha images
are tarnished.

How can a man of earth
escape censure.



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The great Foundation on which all things rest
is soon lost sight of, soon forgot,
fails to hold man’s interest
as entanglements lead to great confusion
(due to the power of the great Illusion);
until he cannot see what is real
and what is not.

A slight vibration in the ear
makes the whole wide world appear
with laugh and shout, wind and rain,
grief and heartache, joy and pain
singing along a thin membrane.

Machines and sermons – all are here
in the slight vibration of the human ear.
Disconnect the electronic train
which links it to the human brain.

A sudden silence fills the head.
The mind feeds on itself instead.
A thousand voices it can hear
can cause a myriad images appear.

Let go.  Let go.  Let go.
Let go what’s in and what’s outside
and seek not for another place to hide.

The silent stillness waits like a drawn arrow
to leap into the void and space.
A raindrop falls into the sea
(losing of moisture not a trace)
but finding out at last how, finally, to Be.



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The pure cry of the uncomplicated child
before it has been trained
in the verbalisations of this world
is the Voice of the Eternal.

Learn from it:
that the way back to God
lies backwards beyond
and identifying
and mentifying;
that the Tree of Knowledge
shares the One Root
with the Tree of Life
but bears a very different fruit.

Taste the fruit of the Tree of Life:
“For except ye be converted
and become as little children
you can by no means enter
the Kingdom of Heaven.”



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