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Acceleration

I recently stumbled across Newton’s Law of Acceleration in my readings. It was explained such that I was able to grasp and appreciate the concept. Then I thought of how bound we must feel as a people who have come to more or less understand such things. Here we sit on a speck of dust flung out near the rim of a predator galaxy. There’s a lot going on out there, and all we can do is watch through telescopes the faded light cast from events beyond history.

Acceleration

This poem has been published in my book an inkling hope: select poems, available in Kindle and paperback formats. Out of consideration for those who have purchased a copy, I have removed it from this post and online viewing in general.
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Hard Fact

I like to hang out in Denny’s on my nights off. It’s one of two places in town that’s open all night, so if I’m not going to just sit in my tiny cottage and rot, it’s a place to go. When the bars close around 2am, the drunken masses crash the gates and burst in like a flood. They bring with them many antics and loud conversations.

One such conversation occurred right near me recently, and got me to thinking. Two middle aged women were going on about all sorts of things, including ex and current boyfriends, child support from ex husbands, and you name it. I quote the segment that got me going for this write in the poem.

Hard Fact

“How was it last night?”
“It was great. I felt things I never felt before.”

How many times have I heard this
    said this

It should have dawned on me then that
    yes of course
        each experience is different
            each partner a new adventure.

Yet it’s nothing new
    this new thing never felt before.

It’s been felt over and over
    since the dawn of man
        since infant hands first reached
            for mother’s receding breast

This is hardwired
    the new thing never felt before

Coded into every membrane
    twin twined strands whose chief
        design is to drive the wet
            machine to reproduce

Consciousness manifests a complex
    ghost in the chassis

It has never been felt before
    so it must be real
        sincere and meant to be
            the path to joy everlasting

But it decays and the hardware presses on
    relentless for the next new thing

The cell wins over rationale
    till no excuse can justify
        the barren need which strives to burst
            forth well placed seed

Yes, we are but hapless victims of our biology, and periodically we even think we’re having a great time. But really we’re just being taken for a ride, dragged through rocky, sulfurous mud by the wild horses of brutal instinct.

So, there’s some Buddhism for you.

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Whitewater

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.

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After Reading the Mumonkan

Sometimes after finishing a book, I like to commemorate the occasion with a small poem. The book was Zen Comments on the Mumonkan by Zenkei Shibayama. Some of what I found therein inspired unexpected insights.

After Reading the Mumonkan

just a single stroke
black paint presents a circle
the empty center
wider than the pacific
reveals and obstructs the way

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not finding

Reading about Chan Buddhist perspectives and philosophies affects people in different ways. As I explored one such text, I found myself writing this.

    not finding

“what is it?”
        i ask a gray-haired man

without opening his eyes
        he holds up a broom
    i walk away shaking my head

“what is it?”
        i ask a bearded sage

without saying a word
        he points to the sky
    i kick the dust from my heals

“what is it?”
        i ask a balding elder

without any warning
        he raps me on the head with a stick
    i wander off rubbing a welt

“what is it?”
        i ask the cold abyss

without a moment’s pause
        something rustles in the dark
    startling my heart

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Ephemeral

Perhaps, in the end, questions concerning the origins of man and his universe will not be answered. We want answers, but chances are they are way beyond, or before, our reach. This is like asking about the origin of faith, or the origin of mind. Everything we know is manifest, but attempting to answer the question of “from” or “where” will only takes us in circles.

Reflecting on such thoughts, I found myself writing this poem, my 14th villanelle.

Ephemeral

Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
A stone now manifest and in the air
Barely above the water, gliding on?

Was it the misty void, though folded soft
Within its mystic lair of dark allure,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?

A stone’s gray flight can never last for long,
Its hue in contrast with the liquid mire,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Do waters ponder, when it lands awash
And splashes up in flight again to soar,
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond?

Momentum slows for every skimming rock,
Too soon to sleep enfolded in the mere,
Barely above the water, gliding on.

Once it is lost from view, its motion stopped,
Ripples expand and fade; and, no-one’s there
Who launched the flat gray stone across the pond,
Barely above the water, gliding on.