Haiku is a traditional form of Japanese poetry characterized by its simplicity, elegance, and focus on capturing moments of beauty and inspiration in nature, inviting readers to contemplate the essence of existence and appreciate the transient beauty of the natural world.
There are more stars than grains of sand on earth.
I look so much larger than a star,
but am I smaller than a grain of sand?
The tangible things we see as whole
are just a surface surrounding a hole.
All there is comes from a hole,
the eye’s center, creating the whole.
An ice cube alone quickly melts and evaporates.
Many ice cubes together, slowly.
Every thing unique, every thing everchanging.
Can’t know every thing, but can know nothing.
The essence of every thing.
Some things high, some things low.
We live in a vertical world.
In sleep and at death, all things equal;
the world is horizontal.
Stars seem motionless, with no sense of time.
Randomly dispersed, without rhythm or rhyme.
Yet, constellations tell time far and near.
Hour of night and month of year.
Once I have passed,
many will think of me as past.
Those who know of timeless love,
that which emanates from above,
will not shed a tear
as I am forever here.
Earth breathes the air, fire eats the Earth,
water drowns fire, air evaporates water.
Different things, same thing.
All time is now.
What was is the past now.
What will be is time passed now.
I first see you as another.
Then I see the you as myself.
Until there is no you or me, just us.
A picture is made of an infinite number of small dots invisible to the eye.
Inside each dot is the essence of creation.
The universe is a dot beyond imagination.
Under the sun,
Earth with an infinite number of things.
In the night sky,
an endless universe, one thing.
Thank you sun for rising to awaken me.
For without the sun,
I would be no one and not one.
Those who are loving are the sun.
Those who want to be loved are black holes.
Every thing seems a duality,
a light side and a dark side.
The sun makes things shine.
Things make shadows.
Like the sun rising and setting,
we rise at birth and set at death.
Yet, rising and setting is an illusion.
The sun is always shining,
rising and setting simultaneously, but in different places.
Sun crashes pond’s surface.
Water only ripples.
Sun not wet.
It is what it is whatever it is.
What it is is of no matter.
What matters is that it is.
Successful students reflect their teacher’s light.
Brilliant students reflect the sun’s light.
Light reveals infinite ways
we can travel through the end of days.
Which way to take is not clear
until in noise music we hear.
Then we don’t need the ways revealed by the sun
as music makes us dance as one.
What’s good for you is good for me
as I can choose who to be,
you, me, or you and me.
Everything revealed by light is beautiful,
unlike sounds which are noisy.
Yet, hidden in noisy sounds is music,
the most beautiful thing of all.
We begin life as a tiny circle, looking like a dot.
As we grow, we have an inside and outside.
Until there is no more circle, just space.
Water downstream is water past.
Water upstream is water future.
Water here is water present.
Water flows like time, but is timeless.
When off the common path we wander,
we see the world with wonder.
Those who absorb light are dull.
Those who reflect light are shiny.
Those who emit light are brilliant.
Living the life of water is the best thing.
As snow, it’s the most reflective thing.
As it flows, it’s more practical than anything.
When it evaporates, it becomes one with everything.
If you are shy
look to the night sky.
Standing tall
in the vastness of it all,
there’s nothing to fear
from the small people here.
Those who are bored
see life as a game board,
but a board it can’t be
as every thing is 3-D.
What I see
is outside of me.
What I smell, taste and hear
draws everything near.
Using constellations to navigate our way,
we don’t see the stars which are the Way.
Light shines brightly
on both “dark” and “light” sides of the moon.
Those who think there’s a “dark” side are in the dark.
Enlightenment cannot be described to real effect;
other than by pinholes of insights,
like stars in the night sky.
A grain of sand is no smaller than a star,
one is near, the other far.
Size depends on where you are.
We enter and leave on a path of white light.
Once here, we are red, yellow or blue.
The white light is the world as it is, not as we are.
Under the sun, the world of the self.
In the night sky, we the soul.
In the white light
we see things right.
Yet our mind is a prism
that puts us in prison.
We see things as red, yellow or blue
but that’s simply not true.
$38 can of paint
brushed on a canvass: priceless
spilled on the floor: worthless.
The road ahead is very clear,
as the light reveals all that’s near.
Shadows form from light that’s passed,
as what is now doesn’t last.
Verbs are fluid, time passing.
Nouns are imaginary, moments frozen in time.
Verbs are the happening, nouns are the happened.
Before we are born
we are undifferentiated
we are the eternal soul.
Upon birth, we are quickly told otherwise;
given personal, social and various other identities:
our temporary self.
Soon enough, some of us forget
every thing is a manifestation of the soul.
These are the lost souls.
With only their self identity,
one day they surely die;
for the gates to eternity are only open to the soul.
For those who retain their soul identity
life is heaven on Earth.
Good or bad.
wrong or right.
What’s black or white is colorless.
A bell ringing in the empty sky.
Sound here, after it’s not.
Much ringing from times passed.
Can’t see the sun on a noisy day.
There’s nothing new under the sun.
All there is is the Burning Bush,
ever-changing flames and eternal branches.
As the self
I am the world.
As the soul
I is the universe.
Every eye is unique.
Yet, the reflection of my face
the same in every pupil.
The universal mind is a reflecting pond.
We sit around its perimeter.
One thing, many perspectives.
When we forget from where we come,
we know not where we are going.
Not knowing what we are,
we go the way of others.
The mind is a reflecting pond,
but do I see my true face
as backward letters hard to read?
So much depends upon
five baby rubber ducks
walking behind a red rooster.
Every thing is two things,
reflected light and a shadow.
As each cannot be without the other,
they are one thing.
Knotted wood with odd streaks of brown hue,
useful for many a thing to do.
Building a desk, feeding a fire;
so many possibilities, one can never tire.
While its static form seems not to change,
what happens below its surface is beyond imagination’s range:
The atoms are dancing to the music of electrons
as compounds are mating as they have for eons.
Now the wood is not as it once was,
it’s a marvel beyond words and without flaws.
There is no fountainhead, river or sea
just something flowing freely, whatever it be.
Under the sun and without the self
we would surely starve to death.
Those who forget we are the soul
cannot survive death, the black hole.
it is ever-changing and always the same
it is finite and infinite
it is temporary and eternal
it cannot be compared to anything
it is not part of anything
it is not missing anything
it is whatever you think it is
it is nothing you think it is
it cannot be described
it is what it is whatever it is
it is who you are
it is perfect
it is nothing
it is the everything
it is the is.
Gently rafting down river.
Calm as the pulse in my veins.
Rapids approach, pulse quickens.
With the eye of the sun,
we see things as they are.
With our eyes, only illusions.
Many see what looks to be
the distant river flowing into the sea.
All I see is me.
Knowledge is a vertical,
a double helix perpetual.
As we climb this ladder to the heavens from where we came,
soon enough nothing is ever the same,
Twisting and turning, what’s right becomes left and left becomes right.
Upward and onward, until Earth is completely out of sight.
I am eye,
a pupil studying the world
filtered by colors and patterns of my iris.
Going back or forward in time is a race,
a journey to Earth’s center or outer space.
Death by implosion/explosion, by fire or ice.
Best stay where I am, everything here, everything nice.
Love from the self and love from the soul.
Each love in life plays a role.
Love from the soul connects us to all.
Love from the self helps us grow tall.
Love is love, it all feels the same
both from places that sound alike in name.
Love from the soul comes from the whole
Love from the self comes from the hole.
I don’t know who in the mirror is it I see
but everywhere else I look I see me.
We appear as a clarinet, but are the wind traveling through it; making sounds that are noise to some and music to others.
Waves of sound and light come down.
So many waves, we can easily drown.
But all we hear and see
is only our memory.
I hear the stories, each told in a different light.
My mind struggles to comprehend, as the stories clash and ignite.
I long to see the truth, but the lights are too bright.
In the heat from the many lights, I await the cool night
where distant stars guide the way and there is no wrong or right.
Better to be unique than perfect.
We are naturally unique, but takes great effort to be perfect.
Uniqueness is forever, but perfection temporary.
Being unique is perfect.
After the purple crayon didn’t taste like a grape,
no grape tasted like a grape.
Our pupils are like stars and black holes.
Like the sun, they illuminate everything around us.
Yet, whatever light enters them is never seen again.
The sun is the eye of the soul,
revealing all through our pupil, a black hole.
As our iris filters the light of the sun,
we each see differently which makes life fun.
The big Buddha statue sits in silent meditation,
bird droppings encrusted on his cheeks like tears.
Some sit at his feet with offerings and prayers,
while a boy named Buddha laughs, swimming in the reflecting pond.
Each of us is a self that covers the soul.
Like a shoe, the self is the visible surface atop the sole.
However shiny and polished, a shoe is useless without a sole.
“Don’t worry about the future,
the present is all thou hast;
the future will soon be present,
and the present will soon be past.”
Family post card sent from Kansas to Tennessee, 1910. Courtesy of Kate Bowers.
Homespun advice from the farm belt; reminiscent of Buddhist teachings, long before they were popularized in America.
I thought an ant small and meaningless,
until I saw the night sky and realized I was.
Bell ringing in the empty sky
bouncing sound
awakens me to time passing.
The mind of God creates the universe.
Our mind creates our world.
When our mind merges with the mind of God,
we are the universe.
Holding something tight,
our hand forms a fist.
Letting go, it’s a handshake.
A coin is integrity,
its different sides duality.
A coin is worth something,
its sides worth nothing.
Guru and I shared stories.
His stories: histories.
My stories: mysteries.
So quickly, roles reverse.
“I love you” is the self expressing love.
“I love us” is love beyond the self.
“I love it all” is divine love.
The sun is rising and setting
simultaneously and continuously.
Day and night is about space, not time.
Birth is fission.
Love is fusion.
Fusion has greater energy than fission.
We come from a black hole
arrive with a big bang
make fireworks
then turn into confetti.
Stars are events from the past.
Imaginary lines between stars create constellations.
Each constellation is a story we think is real.
When past is passed
it is over and under, finished and buried.
When past is past
it is over and over, lingering over the present.
I am a vertical thread.
You are a horizontal thread.
We weave in and out, until we disappear
and now a fabric is here.
In the darkest moments
and beyond the clouds,
stars put things into perspective.
When I am me and you are you
and I am you and you are me,
we are the Everything.
In the box, the puzzle is complete and whole.
Outside, scattered pieces, each alone.
Then each piece begins its quest
to find another that fits best.
Until no piece remains alone
but the peace of being whole.
In the night sky,
looking for constellations
we notice few stars.
In the zoo, beautiful tigers and playful elephants.
Strolling in their cages, we see their nature and ours.
As the thirsty child
drinks from the inkwell,
his parents turn white.
Fertilizer makes roses smell sweet and bloom.
With too much: stink and doom.
