Mother

The need to return to origin
True as the need of home
Rush of red shoreline kelp
The coupling of crabs, flash
Of Garibaldi in tidal pools

But a reason for rock foam
Breaker gull sky– unknown.
Each salty breath brings me
To being in you, Uterus of
Life and Death, great Mother

You hold all my answers
Teach me just who I am:
Many, but one, isolated in
An interconnection of Love
Never greater than now

These unbearably clear days
Blood-burst of mystic ocean
The wonder of hearing in all
The endless hum of gestation
Spun in a womb of silence

The mantra of waves.

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Photo, Cape Flattery, by Rayn Roberts
Painting by KATHY COLLINS from exhibit at Tsuga Fine Arts

Any Day Now

Nothing you were to think, feel, know, remains intact
The givens all gone, the body unravels

The soul does not exist: where spirit seemed to breathe
A great hole deepens, a sea of liquid sound spills in
Pure as God’s voice, moonlight-shoals and starry reefs
In vacancies of time too wide to navigate, the soul
A supreme fiction, a lost frame in an old film
Lightens out of being, a dream in pure color, sensation
Glittering the last hour, the lives that lived you
And left you to wonder, completely gone, directions
Collapse in light, light in all from all
Nothing to hold you, what you are dissolves in awe

A dreadful wonder of knowing all and nothing at all
But the jewel in the lotus, this, this moment.

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Esoteric

After all, as you lie in my arms knowing all
needing nothing but what is, the earth rolling away from the sun
Thunder rolling in the distance

Can you hear the thunder of death, my dear?
Yes, I hear it and more, I hear a sound
Not everyone can hear, I feel an energy not everyone can feel — a Sound

Birth                             a note, Love                                a song, Death

Spinning days into silk, connecting man to men, men to women
Woman to every child, weaving nights out of the past –
The Dead speak to me

They are not dead; they are here
And with the silk of souls our future is woven, all that is
that is humanly good, out of birth this note, out of love this song

Little worm               silken light             little word            OM

 

 

Terry Busch Photo

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Japanese  Garden Photo by Terry Busch

A Forest Monk Speaks

If you find yourself in a Buddhist temple
You are not in a Buddhist temple.

Though you pray and chant for yourself
Night and day, you remain in Hell.

Living and dying, are the two not one
Happening at the same time?

A cobra lifts its head in your path.
Teach it to hiss, not bite.  It is you.

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Poem first appeared in “The Fires of Spring” by Rayn Roberts

Forest Monks

The Monk & The Cobra Parable

download-1  kammatthana_yantra