daecabhir: (Zonked)

Composed earlier to fill up the empty spot on my twitwall. Posted here so non-Twitter followers can see.

Here I sit in my chair
Staring at the empty canvas of a text box
My fingers dance awkwardly
Words form spontaneously and are erased
This is my nightly ritual
Hours sacrificed on the altar of productivity
Forgotten, food goes cold
I drink only when I remember that I am parched
Eyes glazed over and backside numb
Another night turns into morning
And yet I have the audacity to be suprised?









daecabhir: (Firefly Zen)

Truck gone now loaded
Many hands light work making
Still more to be done

Honest sweat on brow
Rain cools the heat of August
End is beginning

daecabhir: (Enlightenment)

One of the things that Shambhala has brought into my life is poetry. Apparently Buddhists are rather attracted to poetry, or so it would seem from simple observation. Perhaps it is the vividness of experience captured in the words of the poet, or perhaps it is the willingness of the poet to expose their immediate feelings through meter and verse. The origins or spiritual leanings of the poet do not seem to be important - some of the more powerful poems I have been fortunate to encounter are from decidedly Christian poets, who seem to have touched the heart of their connection to their deity. Often the poem offered by a fellow practitioner is timely and appropriate, even if the one offering the poem is not aware of that fact.

Mary Oliver is a favorite amongst the locals, and we've shared a few of her poems during our Wednesday evening study group. Inspired by a poem from her collection Dream Works, I purchased a copy. As is my wont, I fanned through the pages, and let Fate decide which poem I would read.

As well you know, Fate has a sense of irony, if not outright humor. I ended up on The Journey, and was stopped in my tracks. Given the current circumstances, this is poignant to say the least.

daecabhir: (Firefly Zen)

If you have ever wondered what comes out of these Shambhala Training weekends, the poem below is an example of the creative energies that seem to get unleashed as a result of intensive meditation practice.

My mind is such a handy tool
For filling in the gaps
It seeks them out
However small
And fills them just like that

My mind is such a busy tool
It seems it never rests
Always working
Never stopping
Just filling in the gaps

My mind is such a care-worn tool
Honed by years of use
Yet it seems
To have no edge
Its cutting days have past

My mind is such a simple tool
Well-suited for its task
Building ego
Closing doors
And filling in the gaps























The above was composed on I-70 westbound, somewhere between Rte 29 and Rte 75, on the way home this evening. Perhaps I'll share another snippet later, along with some thoughts on this weekend.

daecabhir: (Tigger Bouncing)
The hiss of flame beneath the pot
A constant backdrop for the call of pet birds
Waiting, watching, stirring
The water twists and spins with every stroke
Whole grains swirl beneath the surface
Not yet food but soon to be
Bubbles form upon the water
The time has come to heat reduce
Through glass lid view the transformation
Once dry bits engorge with moisture
A pot unminded spills over
Pale liquid residue caught underneath
Timer bell chimes insistent
Remove from heat into bowls to eat
Fruit, nuts, cinnamon, milk and honey
Combined with wheat, oats, flax seed, barley and rye
A warm and wholesome welcome home
Coffee in Tigger mug makes breakfast complete
















I was simply watching the water and hot cereal grains swirl in the pot on the stove, and this is what came to me. Something about a weekend morning when one is not rushing off to do something can be magic.

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Daecabhir, Lord of the Leaping Shadows

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