Broadcast Buddhist

I listen to Krista’s questions
I listen to Stephen’s answers
I watch the light gather itself
I watch the stillness of the mist
I recognise all of this as part
Of life’s rich conversation

Yes, the discussion evolves
The light evolves, the mist evolves
I welcome the light
I welcome the mist
I recognise they also evolve
Within me, by me, for me

Stephen talks of Alain de Botton’s
Idea of an atheist cathedral
He goes with it, I go with it
Do we not all need spaces
Where we might connect
Where we might together read poetry

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Inexplicable Lightness Of Being

Bird, you came to that branch yesterday
In those calm times
Before the Siberian winds ventured forth

How far is your journey
Why would you choose to be here in winter
Does someone nearby feed you

And why that tree
Which is itself without shelter
Why not find one offering a degree of respite

Bird, where have you gone to
In this turbulent time
This is all the weather that the East has to offer

How far is your return
Why would you even have been here
Does someone nearby care for you

And why that tree
Which is in another’s garden
Why not find one of your own

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Quiet Snow

I am but free
That is the standing me
I am but made of soul

I am but free
That is the sitting me
I am but made of all

And in this way
The thoughtful me
Finds another line

And in this way
The careful me
Follows a simple sign

I watch the water droplets
Suspended on the twig
I thus watch the life

I watch the twig
Unsettled by the breeze
I thus sense the strife

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Quiet Snow; Ocean Laughter

As the snow falls
A quiet also falls
Before the coldness
Before the oldness creeps in

As the bird flies
The branch wavers
Meanwhile the rooftop
Meanwhile the rooftop awaits

If it was
If it was Siberia
Why would we not
Why would we not stay indoors

If I was
If I was here alone
Yes, really here
Really here being

I would hear the wave-sounds
I would also hear the birdsong
Before I heard the Ocean
Before I heard the laughter

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Portrait, Top To Bottom

Blue sky
Grey clouds
At forty-five degrees
A pitched roof
Front face on
It is the Pack Horse
A Public House
Whose name appears
In large gold letters
It has Georgian windows
Two sets, two levels
Each with eight frames
Of long uncleaned glass
And a decked out verandah
With wooden handrail
Benches, tables, chairs
A place for outdoor drinking
And socialising
Though not in today’s snow
There is a tall gate
Into the aforesaid tavern
Which may be approached
By a cobbled street
Past the Public Library
All of this can be seen
Stood on the pavement
In front of the Post Office

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