This is my house

I will not dust and tidy it up

Nor shall I leave weary lamps lit for someones’ chance stopping in

The paint is cracked and worn, but time will do that; it is natural

I will not apologize if it does not fit in, does not function to your

standards or if the appearance is lacking “happiness”

It is filled with all sorts odd things that you will not approve of

Things that will surely offend, petrify, terrorize and most certainly chip

away at your sensible, civilized ego



But it is also filled with wonders from all the ages

Things that human beings have desired from their birth of consciousness

Stories that will inspire, swoon and swell a forgotten heart

Caverns of darkness and unexplored fathoms of time and space



You are always welcome here, my dear friend

But just remember one thing;

This is my house


Freed Fireflies

Illusory veils

Blankets upon the mind

Capturing up moments

like imprisoned fireflies

Heed the warmth, flicker-flame

As awareness becomes fire

Fuel for the journey

Coals of desire

for i mes ra bulls



Absolute maitri

In the natural state

all is welcomed

and allowed

While to many

this speaks of bliss

beauty and dancing

it also includes

pain, torment and agony



sympathetic joy


Winter Dathun

Let in by a star

dark, silent beauty of night

we became the shrines

Breaking the proof



In addition, it is black and white

No perspectives or transmutations

The problem must be answered

It can be only wrong or right

In addition, to our experience, we add confusion

When the moment is clear, open and wonderous

We become mathmaticians; desparately searching for a proof

In addition to the labels and judgements self-imposed

We are the sound of water and wind

and cannot be bound

For we are reflections of reality


stumbling in the dark,

fingers fall to find only keys,

or tobacco, no, wait…

tree bark.


crisp yet moist

with deep grooves

inviting curiosity.


soft ground below,

feet find pleasing

with a few snaps

of the dying ancient.


deprived of light,

color and depth,

the mind is freed,

finally, from concepts.

But what about…



Yes sir, I see the bulging billfold;

the flash of your bodily decorations,

 loud, sure tone, in which you speak.

But what of the silence?

What does it say to you?


Yes, I’ve noticed the thousands of facts memorized

and perfectly timed quotes you deliver..

But what of the silence?

Who does it speak of?


And yes, I have taken note of your perfect posture;

wearing the right pendants and clothing

and moving ever so slowly…

But what of the silence?

That which does not speak to form or concept.


What of the silence?