The light bursts in no longer through cracks nor broken halves, nor through torn seams I am not split apart nor wrenched open I am not a fractured heart nor a container for shattered dreams
This lightness spreads outward and cleaves between subtle thoughts mere names, perverse, obscene erased in emptiness supreme this clear illumination beams into and through and out and from within from under and around and beyond a profundity incomprehensible to all minds but the purified subtle mind now obscured, but I am sensible so I ride these blessed feelings as a stable mount – temporarily lucky for having found such conditions and pure instructions both needed to walk on spiritual ground
The path is paved with golden words that have prevented me from going astray I shall not stay another day where life’s absurd – although it might not appear that way – I am mixed entirely with this clear light no body, no conceptions just a relaxed subtle mind loving, compassionate, universally so abundant with a wealth most do not know and when I cry, my tears are gold for with wisdom, before I’m old great compassion arises, and with love unfolds with bodhichitta, I am fearless, bold
I can’t explode at the seams I am seamless, spacious, bright I am vast, clear, light and airy I would not take you in a fight I yield victory to my opponents being happy over right
Do not be blinded nor be frightened I am bursting, radiant, true with bodhichitta motivation I appear to sit and suffer with you join me in meditation I’ll touch you with my mind we’ll both gain understanding and leave this damned world behind
Like your tongue, your touch, your taste, the sound of your voice, your scent in space and in your impermanence, I’ve found you’ve an addictive quality not soon replaced appearing muscular, solid – yet not and, dependent on past patience, quite hot so when I reach out to grasp, to touch my mind makes the form I crave so much
Feeling is empty
But dependent upon your appearance and in dependence upon mine I have felt this drunken romance of two dumb hearts entwined empty of inherent existence our feelings grew and grew now in dependence upon your kindness I feel my heart in you
Discrimination is empty
To tell this from that seemed rather straightforward until our limbs were encumbered with slick sweat and fatigue and from under, lungs that heaved and pressed two chests together so one could not begin nor end and certainly neither leave a body that neither of us owns made two bodies pleased
Compositional Factors are empty
Appropriated aggregates which function to cause us suffering from our side for from this contaminated root grows our self-grasping apprehending I and then come the branches of delusions sprouting their poisonous fruit yet we’re not tempted like Adam and Eve Enlightenment is our pure pursuit
Consciousness is empty
Still producing samsara this mind is like a teeter-totter so we made compassion our motivation to take self-cherishing to slaughter equalizing and exchanging with the other – how taking and giving make you hotter – with our self-grasping now destroyed we are water into water
My name is empty
Never to fall into either extreme I feel your existence like a dream so tonight when I lay down my head, and my hand touches yours in our shared bed I’ll see one achievement more supreme than how we transformed one evil deed now easy to remember we’re mere name still, my wish for you remaining same.
I’m going to keep doing the right thing. No matter what. Hardship does not make me give up. Sorrow does not equate to despair. I am not a coward. I will feel the pain and move forward.
I am stable, humble, fine I am patient, wise, and kind I’ve spent the past six years training my wandering, restless mind so if I want conditions now no external one I’ll find it’s only by creating causes that my samsaric rope unbinds
I’ve found this perfect life with all the misery and strife with all the teachers and the wisdom and the mental faculty to listen to instructions for escape a perfect path that cannot wait for only in this lifetime am I guaranteed this fate
Now it seems I’m close closer than e’er I’ve been before and through contemplating emptiness I’ll walk through freedom’s door seeing a non affirming negative I’ll realize truth once more and by meditating fearlessly and purely with Buddha’s blessings I implore
Even though I impute this I and it these attributes ascribe and unyielding to it relate and with so many qualities inflate false sense of self, let’s call it I and for its suffering, I would die soon I’ll gain freedom from this me so silly to chase its own agony
Since I’ve stabilized my practice becoming grateful and ever kind I’ve ceased this ceaseless grasping and all harm of body, speech and mind so I can live to serve all beings so all beings can be free I’ve developed these good qualities in dependence upon Three
You lose by just remembering You can’t forget your name And even though you’ll try again It’s really such a shame You haven’t hope in high water If you avoid this middle way For never do I falter there I win each time I play
It’s method tried and true My guide has mapped easy escape Yet, like so many, you’ll just ignore it For sensual pleasures you’ll forsake A win, a title, greatness While striving for false fame You’ll burn out, die, forgotten While I beat you just the same
I win this round I’ve won each match All your little moves I catch And it’s just no fun To play in vain For it’s far easier To achieve my aim Than for you to lose your stray
It’s like you don’t know how to play And so I strive to let dogs stay Where they sleep I don’t say a peep Never to blame Rather my own mind tame Because it’s not your fault you lose I repeat, it’s just been a tasteless shame And a waste of pure potential If I’m the only one who beats the game
Intelligence and wisdom are rare uncommon problems and suffering are abundant common
When taking stock of your own burdens count what beasts find refuge in your flock find the sum of your denominator this path is carved from jagged rock
There is a division to set you free based in what is always true you can’t spell it without “m” and “e” but it doesn’t exist without “you”
And if you feel this you is everlasting you might wish for sweet release but there’s only one place you find escape in the depths of your mind . . . already at peace
Such a subtle inner destination difficult without faith to find absorbed in gross cessation a very subtle wind will move a very subtle mind
Only a child dreams that death’s jaws should be an automatic portal to a supposed better place – or even an end
It would be, could be wiser to pretend we are already happy with strength to contend showing a better character moral discipline and restraint with bravery and heart not feint an honour for which all others thirst and a mind that always puts others first
To figure out what’s common to the denominator of your life you just have to find a wisdom mirror and let go of mindmade strife
The quality we wish to see is already present – it’s just buried beneath aeons of bad habits . . . and misguided familiarity
it’s a beautiful night I label, I grasp still, I appreciate nice temporary conditions with childlike delight (especially in winter)
knowing the cause of this peaceful mind is not this appearance but an action, long passed now the effect blooms in the garden of good conditions no external wish granted just joyful disposition for winter never could bring happiness what is this effortless arising so easy, so pure it’s the mind of renunciation samsara’s cure
for the only reason I now have delight is Dharma given kindly which I recall tonight
A political ideology is always faulty and, lacking inherent existence, temporary empty of true philosophy each strawman finds himself merely propped up in dependence – in most cases – upon a fat paycheck, pockets stuffed with straw and sometimes a free iPhone X
We witness a dreamlike hologram feeling like it’s played out before hollow men assailed by eight concerns running to this part of the world and that searching for sensual pleasures – or escaping crap – a quick high, come down, fall flat putting it all online, shamelessly on the line and still, with each desire filled birthing seven more in place and as the siren’s wine is spilled each vice is found and chased
I know the appearance to be empty I know it’s just the karma of this life arising moment by each moment ever changing, temporary, light only made serious in grasping and how we hold the tendency so tight we struggle to create a better habit to remember all appearance dreamlike is just effects of actions of past mind and in present moment torment patient endurance does just fine as never for discouragement could I justify a moment’s time
While we wish it would be easy and that others’ take our pain there never was a politician who sacrificed money or his name and if I need a hero – and certainly I do – I just put Dharma into practice maintaining faith & pure virtue and never was a better hero than my internal motive true mixed with my Spiritual Guide and all of Buddhas’ blessings too
Oh how my success is guaranteed! and perhaps because my name means halfwit I won’t cling to one inborn habit finding no meaning in madness I abandon gross self conceptuality and break attachment to all pleasures brief now seeing clearly the suffering it brings not to mention pervading disappointment “Is that all there is?” old Peggy Lee sings wondering, doubting that we’ll learn found in a world without honourable kings I will not find a perfect ordinary being
It does no good to stomp and yearn or spend much time out in search of something I could never find in this world and in this time a (single) man – no, not even one – who knew when to speak or hold his tongue and understood why war was waged and won, a man who lives with honour and dies by sword or – at the very least – can keep his word perhaps he has philosophy more than a mishmash of newage trickery a value system tried and true but then… he would have time for… who?
No, no such person could exist but female fantasies persist; so this hero imagined I take it upon myself to become and just crank up the volume if I wish to feel strings, bass and drum enjoying skin-kiss from torrid summer sun that sensual object simply swapped for this other one changing suffering is all we appear until awakened from this cursed nightmare happy ever after begins to seem no more than an impossible dream
Yet it’s also my firm work-in-progress because effects must arise as no action is wasted and His compassion prophesied all beings become enlightened all happy, all free it won’t be found in samsara won’t arise from this political crime spree – we ourself abandon bullshit and gain control of our mind with spontaneous understanding we take it upon ourself to be kind no other can take responsibility for this, your one precious life for when swallowed by death you leave this world for the next and there is no remember no refuge, no best no freedom, just sufferings for aeons, without rest
Making use of this life means bowing out of the race I haven’t the time I can’t keep worldly pace my focus and practice is a spiritual drive never separate, never selfish never political nor so contrived understanding my actions imprint on all minds I refrain from harming others and strive to be wise always increasing my wisdom and with blessings apply each Dharma teaching in correct stride this cannot be mandated nor politicized for a Spiritual Path is individual and – in most cases – private, not public, but for each, he decides when to opt out and regain control of his conscious awareness and reprogram his soul until then, never satisfied
I cannot help but laugh at the fake tears our politicians cry even as some will believe their lies I laugh because I am not surprised and I will not be corrupted – even in spite – because happiness is only comprised of parts found within the mind – never outside – so I cannot be bought I will not run nor hide and having removed the delusions pure loving peace now abides so I can truly help others without self – or political ties.
Scratch the aforementioned Seven Brothers thing – this week’s yearned for aesthetic is The Man From Snowy River:
movies based on poems
wild Australian outback
wild horses
dead parents
mountain boys
boys becoming men
saddles & sunsets
stallions being broken
1880s bad girls
running away from home
hard country
hard men
men in leather (brown)
damn Yankees
cooking fires
trains & mountains
Ol’ Clancy sneaking around
*Big Sigh*
*Cheesy Trailer Warning*
*Climactic Spoiler Alert*
the verse that started it all:
The Man From Snowy River a poem by Banjo Paterson
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses – he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up – He would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand, He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony – three parts thoroughbred at least – And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. He was hard and tough and wiry – just the sort that won’t say die – There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, ‘That horse will never do For a long and tiring gallop – lad, you’d better stop away, Those hills are far too rough for such as you.’ So he waited sad and wistful – only Clancy stood his friend – ‘I think we ought to let him come,’ he said; ‘I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
‘He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, The man that holds his own is good enough. And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen I have seen.’
So he went – they found the horses by the big mimosa clump – They raced away towards the mountain’s brow, And the old man gave his orders, ‘Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now. And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills.’
So Clancy rode to wheel them – he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place, And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreadful lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, ‘ We may bid the mob good day, No man can hold them down the other side.’
When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull, It well might make the boldest hold their breath, The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat – It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. he followed like a bloodhound on their track, Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back. But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood and from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, The man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
The Halfwit Writer 