My Writings (New 2)
An
artist of long ago
Lived in the city
of Kouroo.
A perfect work he sought
to make
Being free of flaw or
mistake.
For years no wood could he
find
To make the staff of just the
right kind.
In time his friends grew
old and died,
But he in youth did
abide.
For time kept out of his
way
In his search for the wood each
day.
Before he found a stock to
do
In ruin was the city Kouroo.
He
shaped it on and on
While dynasties
had come and gone.
Kalpa no longer
the polestar
When he smoothed the
staff of mar.
On the ferrule and the
head
The most precious jewels he did
imbed.
When the finishing stroke was
done
His creation was the fairest
one.
The material and his art
Were
both pure in every part.
Wonderful
was the staff to see.
How else could
the result be?
The Gold Winged Bird
From out of the sky he
flew
Flying alone in the sky so
blue
This gold winged bird so
fair
Did sparkle flying through the
air.
There dwelt a little child
near,
Each morning at the bird did
peer
From his bedroom window
he
The gold winged bird ever
see.
The child at the crack of
dawn
watched the bird until he was
gone.
His heart would fill up with
song,
And he was happy all day
long.
No one knew what made him
glad.
Why they had never seen him
sad.
His mind on the bird did
stay,
And his joy could not pass
away.
One day he looked in vain,
No
bird did pass his window pane.
In
sorrow that day he went.
A day filled
with tears he spent.
Next morning it
was the same,
No gold winged bird by
him came.
This boy though a man now
grown,
Yet looks for the bird once
known.
Along a steep
mountain way
Came a heavy laden burro
one day.
Walking under a load so
great
He nearly buckled under the
weight.
Up and up the
mountainside
Where a weaker burro
would have died,
Bearing a burden few
could bear,
And still he plodded
under it there.
He heaved with all his
might
Until all he had left was
fight.
He kept trudging on up the
road
Sweating and straining under his
load.
Under the noon sun he
went,
Ever upon his weary task was
bent
Toward the high peak
before
This most faithful beast of
burden bore.
Worthy creature that he
came
Unto the top though battered and
lame,
And there his burden he lay
down,
But gained not praise nor a
crown.
The Flower And The Honey Bee
The flower
was the fairest blue,
And dwelt in
the morning dew
In a valley filled
with peace
Where beauty did never
cease;
And here there came a honey
bee,
He this fair flower did
see,
From the sky above this bee did
dart
Piercing the flower in the
heart;
But not pain did the flower
feel,
Though the bee did sweetness
steal,
And gather in his mouth and
fly,
Away unto his home on
high.
Alone the flower in the
wind
Did wait for the bee
again,
And when seeing the bee from
afar,
Did wave to him the fair blue
flower.
The Snow White Dove And The Sleeping Fawn
Over and over the snow white
dove
Flew over the fawn filled with
love.
The fawn asleep upon the forest
green,
The snow white dove by the
fawn unseen
The dove 'til the daylight
hours were gone
With eyes full of
love watched the fawn.
Then when
night covered oer the land,
The snow
white dove by the fawn did stand
Never
leaving the fawn for her own
nest,
The dove did stand while the
fawn did rest.
With the night all
around the dove stood there
The snow
white dove and the fawn so fair.
Quite
gentle scene those two in the
night,
The sleeping fawn and the dove
snow white.
Beneath the bright stars
shining above,
There sleeps the fawn
and there stands the
dove.
Finally we come down to just a few thoughts. Pride, contempt, honor, and pleasure all evaporate away, and what is left is a butterfly fluttering over green fields. Fear, hatred, anger all condense into nothingness, but dewdrops on a rose's petal last. Wanting, longing, needing pass from sight, while bluebirds sing and pass eternally before the mind's eye.On a twig in May are the happiest thoughts of life. Ill has no power to harm a heart where crickets and frogs serenade in recollections each night. Woe and grief lose their power when the wind and rain of a thousand blessed showers returns to sedate the mind.
I have loved some things, and that cannot be taken from me. The past has had some precious moments for me. I remember mornings in spring when fragrance, warmth, and beauty was everywhere. Then I cared, felt, and I most surely loved. I remember summer evenings just before dark, and the quiet settling over me. These memories can never be lost regardless of what happens in the future. Surely nothing can block out those good thoughts. That is all I have, a few dear memories, that is all I really own, all I really am.
Special Days Our heart yearns to explore, to reach out and communicate, and to find something to love and believe. We need something to reach out for even if only a straw. There are days we seem to have the whole world right there in our hand, and our thoughts go wild with hope ringing from every word, and happiness is in every smile. Then on the other hand there are days that are just plain empty.
There are days of sunshine when faith breathes in our heart. There are days that sweep us right off our feet into those billowy white clouds, and we forget the objectors until our feet touch terra firma again. There are days that come with a sweetness we cannot define, and whisper music in our ears. Life is all a sham except for on some special days when we remember to believe.
The Moonlight Otherworldly images in the night
Beneath the moon shining bright
Forming in the mind
Apparitions of every kind;Clouds across the moon flow,
Unearthly images in the moonlight glow,
Darkness in the trees,
And voices calling in the breeze;Shadows fall all around
Forming images on the ground
Moving seems to me
In some eerie hidden mystery.
Divine Regret
Often there comes to one
A regret almost divine
Of some thought not quite won,
But which lingers in the mind.Bordering near the heart
Lies the regret without name,
Itself does not impart,
But regret just the same.Is it past memory
Of something beautiful lost,
Something one cannot see
In the mind tossed?If regret it seems sweet,
though it does give some sorrow.
The thought is not complete,
Perhaps I'll know tomorrow.The Goldfinch The goldfinch bathed in a cool stream, a being too fair for reality, and more appropriate for dreams and music. Vivid yellow and black, the goldfinch seemed to glow in that water. Then it flew to a nearby limb scattering water droplets as it went.
The goldfinch burst into sweet song from that perch; song that one expects to come from a creature so brightly marked. It was no larger than the elm leaves at its side, a tiny bundle of cheer.
Hastily I turned from that too lovely being, for here was beauty beyond anything I had ever experienced in my own life, and it made me feel sad and alone. Here was proof of how wondrous life can be, and I was reminded of my lack of faith.
From The Way That I Think I realize the power of my thought
To myself and others also.
Happiness may be brought,
Or sadness may grow
From the way that I think.I can create heaven before me,
A paradise Before my eyes,
Or Hell and misery
Where all the good dies
From the way that I think.I make myself happy or sad,
To laugh or to cry with sorrow,
Either peaceful or mad.
I make tomorrow
From the way that I think.I cannot blame anyone at all
If somehow my life is not right.
The blame on me does fall,
Life is dark or bright
From the way that I think.Springtime Springtime is a movement. It is a thing that must be, like the sun must shine and the rain must fall. Indeed, it comes in spite of all. Spring comes in spite of wars and deaths, in spite of earthquakes and volcanic eruptions, and in spite of social unrest and upheavals.
It comes beautifully, serenely, and simply like it always has and it always will. Regardless of what happens in our personal lives, the ups and downs, the disappointments, the fears, the doubts, the loss of loved ones, our illnesses, our heartaches, and the changes in our lives, spring always comes again, and not one whit changed. Spring is always youthful, jovial, and fresh each time around.
The chief contention of spring is that there is something better. In springtime we look over our condition and perceive there is room for improvement, and because everything is so bright and cheerful we really believe we can accomplish it. As the twigs put on new buds, we too reach out in new directions with new life.
It is a time of awakening and quickening, when life is prodded into action once again. All those hopes and dreams we had put to rest are revived. Pleasant thoughts flit across our mind more often, making inroads through the bramble and tangle of last winter's despondency and desperation. In spite of ourself we take on the season's face, and our heart stirs with happiness. The ice is melted in the pond, and the dormant fields bloom once more.
I can never seem to get over my fascination at the effect the spring warmth has upon living things. Suddenly the sap rises in the trees and the insect becomes animate. Remarkable changes occur, as myriads of colors meet the eye, and multifarious sounds serenade the ear.
The bare forms and outlines are decorated in an infinite variety of ways. The shapes of bushes, trees, and vines take on such rich modifications as to overwhelm the senses and try the imagination. Before our very eyes the transformation accrues as accretion upon accretion of green luxuriously entwines the world in the springtime.
