I am only a witness,
transparent eye
a non judgemental mirror —
or at least a mirror who keeps
her judgments to herself
I am the nursery rhyme before it’s written,
the angel before the fall
the dream before the nightmare
the ring before the call
I hear the future coming,
still feel the distant past,
see outcomes from our actions
that for years & years will last
I weep for sad beginnings
I laugh at mad hellos
see insanity all around us
and suffering only grow
I am ready to escape this
ready to depart
ejecting all attachment
burning all my art
I have not one creation
of which I am proud
except those that come from virtue,
those soundless,
those I’ve vowed
I sow these seeds in silence
for my words have caused much pain
all contaminated actions
seemingly in vain
(* focus on intention *)
I hear the whistle blow,
a hundred miles from home
smell the fields of mountain thyme
growing round the purple heather
and still cannot decide
if to stay or go
until I walk the streets
see the suffering
hear the cries
smell the stink
feel the terror
taste the drink
then it all comes rushing back,
each and every pleasure,
that I’ve had it all before
— it’s time to think!
I cannot do this anymore!
I won’t!
So with reliance, offering, requesting,
my life I do lay down
only for something better
more meaningful, profound
with diligent, stable practice
(which, finally, I’ve found)
and compassionate, loving heart
I fall upon the Bodhisattva’s ground
I bow before the new moon,
and rising with the sun
try to take things lightly,
because all is mind and none is one
The Halfwit Writer 