Judith’s Buddhistic Paradise – Part II

Outdoor Plumbing The Thing about outdoor plumbing is this: if forces you to get in touch with your bowel movements.

Which is about Your Body, and its priorities.

Not your stupid iPhone.  Idiot Phone.  Text Messing.  What who’s neighbor is thinking about the color of your missing teeth or your mother’s favorite night-time fantasy.  Who cares anyway?

The Thing about Outdoor Plumbing, is, it’s part of slowing down and feeling the Breeze, the Breath, the Trees, the Depth.  The stupid silent and fragrant Wind that you’ve been ignoring in your Rush to get Nowhere.

The Thing about Outdoor Plumbing, is … it’s 100% organic, natural and gives back to the earth the very clay that we ingested mere hours ago.  Clay Hamburgers.  Clay Ducks.  Clay Coffee, Sugar and Creme.  Clay Pigeons and Parsley.

The Thing about Outdoor Plumbing, is that it’s You and You Alone with You.  Can you stand the thought of this Blind Date of Dates?  Can you sit comfortably and politely with Who You Are at the Smelly Center of Things and Celebrate Making More Smelliness at the Center of Things?

PART II of PART II – Hike In The Woods.

So, we go on a Hike in the Woods, on the second day of Arrival in the Lost Art of Now, in the Found Land of Buddha, on the Sacred and Unknown Humble mountain-top of South Salt Spring.

And we immediately find two Missing Submarines In The Woods.  The Beatles could have made a Song About This.  But, since they didn’t, I will.  “The Missing Submarines”.  Here we go.

SONY DSC

The Navy was Missing Two Submarines.
They were known to be “Items of Interest” to Captains and Cooks alike.
They fell in Love quietly, while playing with Whales,
and forgetting Guns, Warfare and Sailor’s Small-Tales.

They Eloped One Day.
The Whales helped Whisk them Away.
They ended up on a Mountain-top Buddhist Center
A little Rusty, Crusty and Old
but Thankful for being so Bold
as to Defy Logic, Proportion and Duty
To end up in a place of Magnificent Beauty.

And here they Sit, Passing their Time:
Poor as a Beggar, with Nary a Dime.
But their Hearts are Happy; Light as a Feather.
They endure Snow, Heat and Bugs…
(and all kinds of Weather.)
They Sing like the Whales – when No One’s Around…
They’re true-Blue Buddhists and their Bliss Abounds!

Runaway Submarine

Winter’s Ways …

There’s something in Winter Branches.
Maybe the Cold Rain.
Maybe the Pearls of Wind hard diamonds of Sun
Stray Light of a Season Lost
A questionable friend with Bright Eyes
and Frozen Limbs.
Branches of Winter, Hands of Spring
The Way of Wood
Tears Lingering are now Ice
The memory is a Leaf that Died
The smell is sweet rotten Love;
the Life that Lied to us, Fed us,
Renewed us, Spit us out, Held us
We have nowhere left to Run.
Jewels of Winter's Frozen Fingers
We Multiplied and became Freeways
we Died inside our Cars but loved the Movies
that guided us to Stars
and drank from our Already-Empty Cups
We were cut by our own Blades
and Melted inside our own sun
Cooked to Perfection in the Big Karmic Kiln…
discontented Freeways of the Heart ...
There’s a Million Pearls
And a Million Stars
Sun seems Distant
But it’s Not Really Far
the Light you see now
Has already died
Unless the Light you’re Looking At
Is the Light Inside …
A Million Lights Have Died, except the Light Inside ...
That tree, you see,
is the Tree of Life
It grows on the Island
that knows no Strife.
“Pretty” is a word for parrots
and it won’t take you home.
These words are useless because
they leave you all alone.
This word, and this Tree,
and all the lights ever to Live
are all Switched On
Me Tree, Inside the Seed of Life ...
Inside of Me.

Prisoner of the Fall …

We are Leaves.
We are Trees.
We understand the Small Words
Between the Sentences of Things.

Red Rubies - Prisoner of Autumn

Leaves are Alive in their Demise.
Laughing at Eternity and it’s Approaching Fingers.
We all go There.

Some with Less Color.
Others with Loud Voices.

Laughing Leaves - Dying Season

I talk to you about Escape
And  you tell me  your Dreams are too Comfortable.
I point out the Holes in the Fence
But you refuse to Bend and Fold

if only to crawl Hands & Knees
into the Arms of Beauty

Caught in a Cage

I have Wasted Only a Day
In the Kingdom of Flowers
in the Dignity and Dying Embers of Fall.

these Colors I take Home
and serve New Gravy
on Old Casseroles
to the Guest …
Scattered Soldiers of the Sun

… who Comes and Goes with the Wind.

Paper of Empty ~ Vessel of Song

The Notebook of Life is open
the Pen rests quietly on an Empty Page

this Pen has written on Many Pages
this Pen will write on pages to come.

This Pen now rests on an Empty Page
an Empty Page in mid-October Sun.

In Resting & Renewal, there is an Understanding
of Silence; a Gentle Marriage to the Still Places
of Life.

Inside these Still Places, there is a conversation
with our own Deeper Wisdom, our own Inner Friend;
A Drink from the Fountain that flows at River’s Source.

The Notebook is Open
The Pen rests quietly on the Empty Page
There is Nothing to Begin,
Because Everything has already Begun

There is Nothing to End

Because Everything is Over,
everything we ever Started …

The only thing Not Ending, and Not Begining,
is the Wonder Beyond Words
Which there are no words for, no pens for, no paper for;
no Formalities, Rituals or Celebrations
that Do Justice
to the Unsung Song.

The Pen rests in Silence
It’s tip in Wet Eternal Kiss
on Empty Paper.

All songs have been sung,
and no words have sprung
From this Overflowing
Vessel
of Song.

The Soft Fashion of Love

The Soft Fashion of Love
wrote itself wrapped itself floats itself
around the central finger of my ear canal

The Taste of Electric Dewdrops lingering
like frost on my tongue, god’s cake icing
Krishna’s Dandelion Wine, Buddha’s Belgian Chocolate

The Soft Fashion of Love

The Indelible Massage of Time
stretching and tearing my fabric
into singing shreds of encoded green silk
mixed with the sweetness of Coconut Milk
lifting my nose to the laughter of
a Million Gardenias in your
Drunken Mid-day sun

The Soft Fashion of Love
speaks its Designerly Style
parading in Paris, New York & Malibu
for a thousand Giraffes, a Million Peacocks
a Gamelon Orchestra of conches and chimes
that all begin anew …

In that Fragrant and Silken Tunnel
that leads
to the doorway
of you

Soft Fashion of Love #2