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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Related quotes
Big Snake
The Venerable Luang Pu Soh
is a famous teacher of meditation.
He is eighty-seven years old.
In the second year after his ordination,
while he was sitting in his kuti,
a large golden snake, six metres long
and as thick as a house post,
entered the hut, slithered straight towards him
and lifted him up so that he was seated on its coils.
It pushed its head into his body, but he felt no pain,
and seemed to push it out again
between his shoulder blades.
When he reached up carefully with his left hand,
he could feel its head above his own,
just as it is shown
in images of the Buddha.
After a while it crawled out and away
and he could feel his bottom touch the floor again.
In his sixth year, while walking in the Temple grounds,
he heard a loud voice inside him,
“In your eighth year
your symbol will appear
through the air,
on the ninth waxing day
of the ninth lunar month.
He who has it now will come.”
When this day came,
he sat meditating as usual
in the early morning.
There was the loud rushing and roaring sound
of a great wind
which caused the branches of the trees around
to sway and beat against the ground
and a helicopter landed in front of the hut.
The pilot got out.
His clothes were green,
as was the cloth across his shoulders.
He had green armlets.
He had green skin
and carried a three-stringed violin.
The monk recognised him as Indra
and the violin as the instrument he had played
before the Buddha.
(Though he was not as beautifully arrayed
as in Temple paintings.)
Indra walked towards the kuti
and went straight underneath.
Twenty minutes later,
the monk climbed down
to look under the hut
but Indra was gone
and, when he looked, the helicopter had gone too.
After breakfast,
he was reflecting on this,
when a voice said, “It’s coming! ”
At eight o’clock, a white van arrived
and a couple got out, carrying something
wrapped in a white cloth
which they presented to the monk.
It was an image fifteen inches high
of Buddha seated on the coils of seven nagas,
their seven heads arching protectively over his.
He named it Venerable Father of Seven Kings.
The image is famous and venerated throughout the country.
Copies of it and tear-dropp amulets are widely sold.
From this image the monk has received
Dhamma instruction and practical advice
by means of an inner voice.
According to the voice, the image is eight hundred years old
and the voice entered it at its casting.
When asked, “Who are you? ”
The voice will not particularise.
www.bamboo-leaves.com
poem by Brian Taylor
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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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Actually, There Is Still No One There....
it is when all of you
had left
this room when i am finally alone
that i
feel what departure must be
departure is synonymous with
loneliness
when it begins stabbing your peace
distance is prolonged
it is light embracing finally
the tunnel of darkness
you hear a tinkering bell
from a saffron monk
you peep from a leak of this
structure
still, there is no one there.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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It Must Have Been Years
A radio plays 'white christmas
Its been doing that for years
If someone leaves the station
Oh please dont talk to strangers
Cant you see theyre not like us
The vacant flesh of u.d.s
Stand leaning by the walls
You can feel them thinking over
Ways of merging with the thoughts
You never dare to dream
It must have been years
It must have been years
They want to relive all my memories
Give me 'the service daily
Maybe it was mother
I cant seem to remember
Much at all these days
Picture open doorways
No pick-ups by the taxi boys
Just a bed near the window
And an old lamp by my pillow
And the things I have to do
It must have been years
It must have been years
The driver wants to touch me
He mentions all the old cop bullshit
I try to back away
But hes so strong I just cant move
Maybe I dont want to anyway
The time to leave is always 'soon
I wonder if Im lying
A vague feeling of panic
As a man leaves saying thank you
I blame it all on you
It must have been years
It must have been years
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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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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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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Looking For A Monk And Not Finding Him
I took a small path leading
up a hill valley, finding there
a temple, its gate covered
with moss, and in front of
the door but tracks of birds;
in the room of the old monk
no one was living, and I
staring through the window
saw but a hair duster hanging
on the wall, itself covered
with dust; emptily I sighed
thinking to go, but then
turning back several times,
seeing how the mist on
the hills was flying, and then
a light rain fell as if it
were flowers falling from
the sky, making a music of
its own; away in the distance
came the cry of a monkey, and
for me the cares of the world
slipped away, and I was filled
with the beauty around me.
Jacksons, Monk And 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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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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S3
let the days pass
let all the dreams ask
why are we still unfulfilled?
when will we become true?
let the days pass
let the mind be as busy as a marketplace
let the haggling be haggling
bargain bargain, compromises
let the days pass
let the hair on my head be all white
let the days eat me whole
and let me fade like a ghost
let there be none of me again
i have had enough
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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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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With Antecedents
WITH antecedents;
With my fathers and mothers, and the accumulations of past ages;
With all which, had it not been, I would not now be here, as I am:
With Egypt, India, Phenicia, Greece and Rome;
With the Kelt, the Scandinavian, the Alb, and the Saxon;
With antique maritime ventures,--with laws, artizanship, wars and
journeys;
With the poet, the skald, the saga, the myth, and the oracle;
With the sale of slaves--with enthusiasts--with the troubadour, the
crusader, and the monk;
With those old continents whence we have come to this new continent;
With the fading kingdoms and kings over there; 10
With the fading religions and priests;
With the small shores we look back to from our own large and present
shores;
With countless years drawing themselves onward, and arrived at these
years;
You and Me arrived--America arrived, and making this year;
This year! sending itself ahead countless years to come.
O but it is not the years--it is I--it is You;
We touch all laws, and tally all antecedents;
We are the skald, the oracle, the monk, and the knight--we easily
include them, and more;
We stand amid time, beginningless and endless--we stand amid evil and
good;
All swings around us--there is as much darkness as light; 20
The very sun swings itself and its system of planets around us;
Its sun, and its again, all swing around us.
As for me, (torn, stormy, even as I, amid these vehement days,)
I have the idea of all, and am all, and believe in all;
I believe materialism is true, and spiritualism is true--I reject no
part.
Have I forgotten any part?
Come to me, whoever and whatever, till I give you recognition.
I respect Assyria, China, Teutonia, and the Hebrews;
I adopt each theory, myth, god, and demi-god;
I see that the old accounts, bibles, genealogies, are true, without
exception; 30
I assert that all past days were what they should have been;
And that they could no-how have been better than they were,
And that to-day is what it should be--and that America is,
And that to-day and America could no-how be better than they are.
In the name of These States, and in your and my name, the Past,
And in the name of These States, and in your and my name, the Present
time.
I know that the past was great, and the future will be great,
And I know that both curiously conjoint in the present time,
(For the sake of him I typify--for the common average man's sake--
your sake, if you are he;)
And that where I am, or you are, this present day, there is the
centre of all days, all races, 40
And there is the meaning, to us, of all that has ever come of races
and days, or ever will come.
poem by Walt Whitman
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Rizal
i agree
education is the key
when the door if
finally opened
in fact a long time ago
and
we already had
333 years in that
Spanish convent and
43 years of
that Hollywood experience
another door has been
closed
and still
the key has to open it
one door leads to
another
same key
the young keep on getting
that key
another door is close
more keys
each key has become
more expensive
and some have thrown
that key away
meanwhile the Authority
is asking
that doors outside the country
be opened
export labor
brain drain
that is another key
problem
on the other
hand
it is not the money
it is the open mind
resilient to
poverty
taking time still to laugh
at those hard times
i agree
despite the irrelevance
it is still
the rightful key
the door is open
and we are inside it
no one
no one can take this house
again
from us
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Thirteen Years
Thirteen years of pencils and paper
Thirteen years of “I'll do it later”
Thirteen years of homework and classes
Thirteen years of fails and passes
Thirteen years have gone by so fast
And it's finally our year of last
Thirteen years of enemies and friends
Our memories that will never end
Thirteen years of growing up
Relying off of chance and luck
Changing our hair and our clothes
Making our decisions based off shows
Thirteen years preparing for our lives
For our future successful tries
For our almost guaranteed mistakes
And the friends we are sure to make
Thirteen years and now thirteen more
Traveling from shore to shore
Separating from our family and friends
Moving on and on again and again
Good Luck to us all, wherever we go
May we always have pride, and let it show
For our origins of HHS
Class of 2011 will always be the best!
poem by Cheylee Miller
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Beggar is close to God
Begging for something is a cut
That is made at the root of your ego.
Begging for food is the deepest cut.
A monk goes begging for food,
Where he feels pride, not humiliation.
A beggar knocks the door for food,
Cursing his fate, tasting the humiliation.
Ego is active in monk, dead in beggar.
Who will get quick salvation?
04.11.2001, Pakd
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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The Value Of My Life...
and this is the paradox
says the monk in saffron
the value of life depends on
how you value too
the life of others
the higher you put others
on their pedestals
the nearer you are to yourself
and to God
much closer even
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Vivid Images
five brown wrinkled fingers
coming out from an arm of age
ten in all
when in loneliness i lay down on a rock
and count the years
and months
and the toes are added and the tongue
forms a word from my thorax
i
love
myself
that is the declaration of my being
i stand and raise my arms to embrace the
morning sun
i look down
and see a worm
singing
its loneliness too
the leaves are falling
like my hair
the fingernails demand
the cutting of extremes
the silence of the night
sews my lips
seals my mouth
i remember mama
and i take an old picture where she is too young
and beautiful
things are always moving like an age
like a helpless wrinkle
what do i learn from this world:
nihilist, i leave everything as is
no explanations
just a signal that we are moving forward
and there shall be stopping
until the last breath is
given
off.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Roussalka
A LEGEND OF THE WATER-SPRITE
In forest depths, beside a mere,
A monk once made his habitation ;
Absorbed in penances severe,
In fast and prayer he sought salvation.
Already by his own poor spade
His grave was hollowed to receive him,
And every day the good saint prayed
That Heaven from earth would soon relieve him.
One summer's eve, the hermit poor,
At prayer within his narrow room,
Looked out beyond his humble door
And saw the forest wrapped in gloom ;
Night-mists were rising from the mere,
Between the clouds the moon 'gan peep;
The monk unto the pool drew near
And gazed into its waters deep.
He saw himself—drew back perturbed
By fears he ne'er had known before ;
For, lo, the waters were disturbed,
Then suddenly grew calm once more ;
'While fitful as a twilight shade,
Than virgin snow more purely white,
From out the pool appeared a maid
Approaching in the silver light.
She shook the bright drops from her hair
And gazed upon the anchorite ;
To look upon her form so fair
The good monk trembled with affright.
And he beheld her from afar
With head and hand strange signals make,
Then swifter than a shooting star
Dive back into the silent lake.
All night the hermit could not sleep,
All day in agony he prayed ;
But still he could not choose but keep
The image of that wondrous maid
Before him. So, when day did wane,
And overhead the moon was bright,
He watched, and saw her come again
In all her beauty, dazzling white.
She beckoned to him where he stood,
And gave him greeting glad and free.
She played and splashed about the flood,
She laughed and danced in childish glee,
As softly to the monk she cried :
' Come hither, monk, and join me here!'
Then suddenly she dipped to hide
Her beauty in the darkling mere.
The third day came—grown mad with love,
The hermit sought th' enchanted shore
Ere yet night's veil was drawn above,
And waited for the maid once more.
Dawn broke—the monk had disappeared . . .
And now the frightened children say
He haunts the pool: and lo! his beard
Floats on the water night and day.
poem by Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin
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A New Door
i remember
this door was made
12 years ago
the day when i married you.
we chose clear lacquer
to keep its original
mahogany grain
we keep the gloss
and we were never
at loss.
there were loud slams
oh, i hate to remember
but there were also gentler closes
of this door
with all the tender intents
of not having to disturb
a single soul.
then the hinges begin to rust
and the door creaks and
screams getting louder
like the madness of the one
who fears
that love is finally gone.
the termites came
and the frames get hollow as
time pierces it
showing the emptiness
inside it as though
it was mere kind
of a seashell
the knob is finally broken
and the key to open it again
was lost
then we come back to our senses
after twelve years
the door has to be replaced
with a new one
this time white in paint
the hinges glossy copper
the knob in shining silver
and the key fits in without any sound
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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