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.
Life is a trial.
Some are innocent, some guilty,
some win, some lose.
Everyone executed at the end.
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 see the soul.
In the white light
we see things right.
Yet our mind is like a prism
that puts us in a 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.
Love comes from the sun.
Our soul loves the light of the sun.
Our self loves the warmth of the sun.
Verbs are fluid, time passing.
Nouns are imaginary, moments frozen in time.
Verbs are the happening, nouns are the happened.
Good or bad.
wrong or right.
What’s just black or white is colorless.
A bell ringing in the empty sky.
Its sound still here, after it’s not.
Much ringing from times now 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 my self
I see the world.
As the soul
I see 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.
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.
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, we see only illusions.
Love from the soul connects all as a whole.
Love from the self takes us into a black hole.
Many see what looks to be
the distant river flowing into the sea.
All I see is me.
I am eye,
a pupil studying the world
filtered by unique colors and patterns of my iris.
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 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
as we can’t be without the soul.
As my eyes can see,
every thing I see looks beautiful.
Seeing through my mind,
few things are beautiful.
Before the now,
before the world of form,
the soul is whole.
In the now,
the soul is countless forms and roles.
until once again we become whole.
I thought an ant infinitesimally 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 animal 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 is a greater explosion than fission.
We come from a black hole
arrive with a big bang
make fireworks
then turn into confetti.
Star lights 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
the stars are brightest
if we look to the sky.
When I am me and you are you
and I am you and you are me,
we are the Everything.
In the jigsaw puzzle box, we are one and whole.
Outside the box, we scatter into pieces, each unique.
Frantically, the pieces seek their mates,
until no piece remains, 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, it’s stink and doom.