We’re all caught up in the stream of consciousness, the madly rushing stream some of the old Zen masters would refer to as “mind”. Such is the nature of samsara. It’s rough, but life’s rough. Existence is rough. Being is rough. There’s no escaping the roughness so long as mind moves. And since I don’t have a clue how to go about stilling mind.
Whitewater
we’re caught in a turbid flow
you and i
and we must learn to swim
both or die
the banks are high and torn
rip-rap roots
churn the heaving surge which
leaves no bar
ahead a canyon booms and
we are bound
to shoot its foamy rocks and
shoreless pools
snags menace every feeble stroke
trunks and boughs
broken into maenad nests of
tooth and claw
no raft will lift us safely through
arms and legs
are all we have to navigate this
wrathful flood
gather up your will and swim
peel your eyes
watch the movements of the stream and
tread the wake
beyond these tangled weave of bends
we may find
a white sand beach of clarity where
moments rest
Little poems like this can be good for playing around with imagery and exploring different ways of bringing an object to the mind’s eye using words.
