Practice makes perfect
A bronze gong sounds and resonates.
The echoes slowly die away.
The ancient monk still meditates.
As he does every single day.
He falls into a trance like state.
Which he achieves with practised skill
The sound waves cannot penetrate.
His consciousness against his will.
The ancient monk sits tranquilly
.Detached from our reality.
He is content to simply be.
Enjoying the tranquillity.
Of being free from illusion
Earned by meditation.
Wednesday,25 April 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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The Monk and the Tree
At dawn each day, as
the monk awoke upon the polished floor, and
rolled his bedding mat, the Way –
the way things are, the way they follow –
walked its way beside him.
Later, he would take his brush,
the ink-block, paper, and the water-pot
he filled each day with water from the river,
and find a place, among the woods,
or by the river bank; where the Way
would teach him old things, seen as if now new.
Most often, he would sit near an ancient tree
which had so much to teach him;
its trunk and branches gnarled and twisted
with the wisdom of the Way.
The tree was, as great trees are, the most
adventurous of artists: every Spring,
it would put forth new twigs,
as awkward as a newborn deer on
stick-like legs, trying to stand and walk;
the tree would let the Way make it
as awkward, unsymmetrical,
as inartistic as could be…
then slowly through the year, the tree, the Way
would make of this, a new and daring beauty;
and the monk would learn of it,
take up the brush, moisten the ink-block,
and – brush gently swishing black on white –
draw his daily lesson through the year…
and because he was so loved and famed,
connoisseurs of that most ancient art
would beg his paintings; find their breath
held, at his daring; their eyes would learn the Way.
When the monk, now old, joined the Immortals,
his many students gathered near that ancient tree.
They said, the tree did not seem sad at all;
threw out new leaves, seemed to rejoice;
as teachers do, whenever pupils shine.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Solfeggio (Part 1)
The sine-waves of the theta pulsing choir note
Are like clear water bells in our love meditation,
With timeless feeling in Zen ambiance they float
And with signals from space without any cessation.
Being stimulated by Tibetan Chimes Solfege or by
Intergalactic fusion music as monaural Gamma pulses,
They produce lucid dreams to keep us on spiritual high,
Where Gamma Centauri may send some delicate impulses,
Centauri has a gentle spacious feel with Gamalon Solfege
And the synthesizer interactions blend with the white noise.
Tones liberation means Tibetan bowl and sine waves cortege,
When solfege frequencies from background sounds man enjoys.
The Silk Road meditator learns the oriental Koto song,
To assist in the release of crystallized emotional bondage.
Intuitive Sine for non-linear knowing is like an awakening gong
Ending to Theta meditation as “conscious'' for knowledge.
LA Unconditional is a dreamy triad of love frequencies.
The Solfeggio was also used in Ancient Gregorian chants,
In great hymns to St. John the Baptist and to sacred dyad.
. This way, the power of purity and transformation it grants.
. Explored through Gematria and Numbers book for holy place,
These sounds hold the keys to super-consciousness and longevity,
Accelerating healing, dimensional travel, the fabric of time and space
Arranging the energy and perception in organized cube symmetry.
poem by Marieta Maglas
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The Bad Monk
On the great walls of ancient cloisters were nailed
Murals displaying Truth the saint,
Whose effect, reheating the pious entrails
Brought to an austere chill a warming paint.
In the times when Christ was seeded around,
More than one illustrious monk, today unknown
Took for a studio the funeral grounds
And glorified Death as the one way shown.
—My soul is a tomb, an empty confine
Since eternity I scour and I reside;
Nothing hangs on the walls of this hideous sty.
O lazy monk! When will I see
The living spectacle of my misery,
The work of my hands and the love of my eyes?
Translated by William A. Sigler
Submitted by Ryan McGuire
poem by Charles Baudelaire
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I Am Wolf
In the night it is my cry you hear
that carries on the echoes of the wind
the sound of ancient drums beating
my eye's that gaze right through you
from the shadows of your soul
it is my heart that beats from within
that protects you from that which you fear
in times you feel you can't make it through
it is my wisdom and strength that makes you whole
my hunger for knowledge you are feeding
it is my Spirit that keeps you free
for I am wolf, I am in you
and you are in me
and one we will always be
Spiritwind-2012
poem by Spiritwind Wood
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The first jazz pianist I heard was Thelonious Monk. My father was listening to an album of his called 'Monk's Dream' almost every day from the time I was born.
quote by Benny Green
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Spank It
1-hey sped!
2-hey what?
1- what you wanna do?
2- I wanna spank!
1-spank what?
2- spank my little monk!!
1-to the left
2- to the right!
1&2- spank it up and down all night!
1- spank the monk!
2- spank, spank the monk!
1- spank the monk!
1&2- spank spank, the monk!
song performed by by Eagles
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not Fitting In Despite All Those Years
sometimes you envy
the monk in maroon peacefully
crossing the street
somewhere in Ho Chi Minh
or even an earthen bowl half-filled with water
with a jasmine flower floating
upon a very still world
you like to take the brush and some water colors
to paint all these
but it is a little crowded world you have there
there is simply no time for wasting
it's a fast paced lifestyle
the lifelessness of the to and fro
the unstoppable flow
trying to accomplish almost everything
without meaning.
somewhere in a dream
you wish you were the monk
or even
the jasmine
and then you hit your chest with your fist
convincing yourself that at a certain hour
you can be so foolish
still not fitting in despite all those years
'how can you be a beautiful jasmine in a concrete wall?
how can you be the monk in maroon in a public market full of
swindlers and screaming spice vendors? '
amidst the mess, in the middle of the crowd
how can you be a dream?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Bruce Lee
Land of the ‘free' he was born unintentionally,
Away from his native home, returning at the age of three.
Back to a place uncompromising and tough,
Growing into a leader, in a twilight zone.
Thoughts of what would happen if no one behind?
For survival, others and luck were not enough,
When totally on own.
Will victory be signed?
Enrolling in an ancient art to better his way on the street,
Brushing with the law, they were dangerous days.
At times, his face is the only one his teacher would meet!
Totally in to all it's ways.
Frustration to get away,
To contemplate training and self scorn.
Floating in a boat, he lay,
Anger punched the water, which he sailed upon.
‘Water', the essence of what should be,
Realisation starts to dawn.
Absorb and penetrate, it's the reality,
Suddenly a bird flies by and casts its shadow, another meaning is born.
The mind has to be the reflection, moving but still,
‘Detached' from the disturbance.
From the physical skill,
To create harmony and balance.
Sent away for his own good,
By concerned parents.
To make a life if he could,
To his birth land, hope he represents.
Five years practice behind,
New land, new knowledge to find…..
poem by Guy Lipmore
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The Great Gambler
The Gambler stopped a monk
dwelling on spiritual plane,
And exclaimed, "Oh! monk
we both are exactly same
So I think we both of us
deserve equal name and fame.
Monk replied, "Gambler! I put
self not a pelf at stake,
And drink bitter poison
for God's sake
Only fool would say our
lives are same
For you a game is life
for me a life is game.''
Dr Hitesh C Sheth
27/12/2009
poem by Hitesh Sheth
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Infinite Peace for friend Thad
The golden tones of a bronze gong
still echo although silently.
When first I heard that sacred song
whose melody enraptured me.
His treble voice was crystal clear
each note he sang hung in the air.
I felt his presence drawing near.
I longed to move but did not dare.
The treasure I had come to steal.
Was now of little interest
this sacred place was to reveal.
My evil demons dispossessed.
The scales had fallen from my eyes.
No longer ruled by lust and greed
I saw that wisdom was the prize
which would fulfil my every need.
One moment all was crystal clear
I understood reality.
Then I succumbed to abject fear
betrayed by frail humanity.
I’ve searched the world but searched in vain.
In pursuit of my endless quest.
to find that sacred place again.
Until I do I’ll know no rest
I garner knowledge as I go
and store it in my memory.
I’m glad to share the things I know
in fair exchange for what you teach me.
Perhaps one day my feet may find
the pathway to that sanctuary.
Where I can leave the world behind.
Be purged of self and simply be.
I long to hear that great bronze gong.
Which echoes to infinity
and understand the sacred song.
Which underpins reality.
Long years have passed my limbs grow weak
but still I’m forced to journey on
until I find the place I seek.
Where everything blends into one.
23-Dec-07
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Who am I
Marijuana, marijuana
I am natural
But they do not
Want me to exist
For that i resist
Universally they know me
Psychologically i set the people free
But evil people do not like me
I have stabilized many emotion
I have encouraged and
Given many inspiration
With me comes deeper meditation
I will take you from the dust
And place you higher
What do you want
Intelligence or power
Seek me, respect me
And use me
Marijuana, marijuana
by: matt ancient
poem by Matt Ancient
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The Only Monk Keyed
The monk...
He has the key!
Does that make him,
The only monk keyed who sees?
Inspired by:
Mr. Duncan Wyllie
'Hi Duncan,
Thought I would have some fun with your poem,
'He Sees'.'
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Hostage's Illusion
Help!
Being held hostage
by Reality
call the Illusion Police
who can come to stage
my imaginary release
whereby I can triumphantly
return to Reality
where my bonds
have been illusioned away
by a Reality
which provides me
a different kind of Illusion
such that I can have
my free choice
between the two;
and which is which
between I and you.
Suddenly you touch me
and I am confused
and retreat to my
preferred
illusion;
an add-on.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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White Hair
i let the years pass on my busy days
this and that
those and there and here
contemplation is a monk and he has not come
my door is open
and the crowd came in. Leaves of years keep
falling like it is caused by the cyclone
of my moving forward onward
this and that and those and there and everywhere
until one moment when the last white hair fell
and then i shudder
to all these and that and those and there and here
and nowhere
and nothing, until the monk in saffron cloth came
asking me
if i am finally going.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Poya Day
A throne draped in virgin white
Flowing gently in the mildest of mistrals
Like the gentle flight of a coasting crane
Under the lofty branches of a lonely Bo tree
As the bountiful leaves part with a vivacious rhapsody
The rustle of shelves of leaves, elating the prospering dew
Yearning to spring on the unsuspecting feet of the passing crowds
As Aurora unveiled the promise of a Poya day
As the gathering crowd await the advent of a scholarly monk
For reverberating wisdom to burgeon the mind
In the fluidity of a heavenly ataraxia, a serendipitous tranquility
Tides of an apical serenity embracing the sands of the porous psyche
As the mistral gathers vivacity, a lonely monk ascends to his apical seat
A worldly acumen resonates from the epicenter of the monk's voluble lips
To harness grains of benevolence, to nurture the voracious appetites of thawing minds
To cater to the famished intellect, to engender a transformation from within
To fuse in to the resonance of goodwill a lonely monk bestows
Worldly wisdom jumping across through mental faucets
To enliven the conscience, to lend a helping hand to the marginalized
All this wrapped in the articulate sermons of a Poya day
As the full moon appears in the twilight sky, one can envision
The shimmering coronas of a submerged psyche swamped in wisdom
Yearning for an act of deliverance to ghettos of contemporary life
poem by Dilantha Gunawardana
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Casanova's Confession
You're very, very mistaken
If you think I am a monk -
I go round rejuvenating
Old ladies with my sp*nk!
And it isn't just the old ones
I pleasure with my charms,
The young ones to are desperate
To hold me in their arms!
I give them what they long for
And do it all for free,
It's simply my vocation
This 'Sensual Charity' -
Don't be so goddam jealous,
When all is said and done
I may be over-zealous
But I do it just for fun!
poem by John Thorkild Ellison
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Benediction
Read this poem only aloud
read it as slowly and with such solemn dignity
as if it were the whole great human race
declaring itself to be truly great
read it as if it were
as indeed it is
not words but a great sounding bell
and you are that great bell
so large a bell so low its boom
that it is more vibration than a sound
struck in a temple courtyard
by a robed monk so full of love
that he merges into love itself
every time he sounds the bell
and as its sound now travels up
into the clear mountain air
the goatherds and the goats hear in its sound
the meaning of their life
and in the fields the workers raise themselves
and know what blessing is
and in the valley the silence after each stroke
becomes more real
as the echo fades
and the air knows itself
this poem is the sound of the human heart
listening to itself beyond all words
hearing praise and gratitude and love
knowing themselves in stillness for what they are
this poem is what is beyond all words
smiling sorrowing as it seeks for words
as it vibrates out into the silence
the wonder of the unspoken
the magic of all that’s yet unmanifest
the thoughts yet to be thought
hear in this bell the sound that tells to all
that there is enough love
in one single human heart
to nourish the whole world
hear this bell sounding aloud
sound out eternal in your soul
* * *
[work in progress]
poem by Michael Shepherd
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Naturally Superior
An ancient Cypress tree still stands
Beside a ruined monument.
Outlasts the works of human hands.
Nothing man made is permanent.
The tree is self sufficient.
It needs no other maintenance.
Apart from the nourishment.
The soil provides and rains enhance.
The builders of the monument.
Erected by them to impress
Are long since dead that's evident.
Outlasted by this grand Cypress.
The ancient tree's content to be.
Just what it is a simple tree.
Saturday,03 March 2012
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
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Chaos Enshrouded
All about lay Chaos enshrouded
As we dedicate ourselves into meditation.
We bend as we break the rules of our schooling
Still we seek to penetrate the skies through the windows secret.
That same window pane upon which our dragon
Hath crashed so many times in vain.
Penetrate Wisdom beyond the recollection
Of sensory experience yet know that we are
To lay without resistance to the rhythms
Of life’s ever present flowing.
Seek to know the truth beyond
A blanket snow of Virgin Innocence.
I’m left indifferent to the callings of my defences.
Seeking as I am, sense beyond reason
Seeking Love beyond acceptance of Our Mother
We are but constructing the boundaries of our own self confinement.
If we are to break free of these shackles of our binding
We much tackle the subject insistently.
We must be resilient in defiance.
Yet remain open to the truths spoken beyond the comprehension
Of our souls.
We are lost hearts defeated
Our glory is the realization
We are whole within ourselves.
Still every now and then it’s nice to place
The illusion of a reality confused upon the shelf.
poem by David Lacey
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Jacksons, Monk & Rowe
Sister 4 and brothers 3
Hanging off the family tree
Practising for getting old
Do you want your fortune told
Theyre looking for you high and low
Now theres nowhere for you to go
So youll just have to come out and face the music
Jacksons, monk and rowe
Long ago when we were kids and we cut your hair to bits
As we carried off like spoils the heads wed smash right off
Your dolls
But the wind is changing you know
Are you sure of your friends and your foe
Have you got what it takes to carry it off
Jacksons, monk and rowe
As the sun beats down and life begins to complicate
Will we both incinerate
If we touch that brass name-plate
Messrs. all, noble sirs
Highly paid solicitors
Find enclosed my signed divorce
Sad proceedings you endorse
The burden of pity will show
In the people we used to know
Have you got enough strength to carry it off
Jacksons, monk and rowe
song performed by by Elvis Costello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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