I've started writing poetry again:


Beneath the far-flung, endless roof of space,
A single hymn is turning in the void,
A chanting coming from another place
Where ancient infant fears are all destroyed.
Arise, you armies of the twilight moon
And carry home the hopeless and afraid
Who all through Life have prayed that Death come soon;
Now lay them ‘neath the Great Tree lest they fade.
Give unto them the Living Water true,
Glowing in the silver shade of night;
Speak unto them the Word that will renew ---
Immortal flower, blossom in the light.

Pointless.. no one reading anyway

The moment I begin to write, I lose the words.. as if they're right at my fingertips and then suddenly they scurry off like mice that want not to be seen. I believe there is a true Home for all of us, whether or not it is the same for each. I am not sure what makes me believe this.. there is a part of me, so hidden and secret that at times I think I am making it up, that really truly feels the truth of this... that there is a Home. Not A home, but THE Home, before my body, before my life, before mistakes, before friends and enemies, before romance, before despair and sadness, even before happiness. I know somewhere in me that there is a Home, a Home that maybe is nothing more than a new and truer way of Being, a new a truer way of seeing and understanding my role as a human being.. my role as a lover and a boy and a man and a son and a friend. But maybe it is none of this.. there is nothing substantial to tell me the truth in this world. There is nothing around me that I can grab hold of and say "See! This is what I mean!", for when I begin to do this, it comes out all wrong, it comes out nonsense, or it comes out in a way that has been done before. God, help me. Isn't that Home? Why have we been taught to fragment and divide and go further into the mind's recesses? Further into the endless branching and sprouting of idea and opinion and position and personality and right/wrong blah blah blah? Is it so hard to see that there is a Light that is illuminating all of this? A Light that makes all things possible and all things knowable? Am I insane? NO! Thousands of years of wisdom and practice and worship and prayer and meditation and reflection and contemplation, all for what? All to be abandoned as fruitless by this generation? In fact, reading over this, it struck me that it is simply absurd to think that I can point to this Light, as it is the Light that illuminates even my pointing! This is what the Zen masters have been saying for hundreds of years, and before them the Advaita Vedanta teachers who said Thou art That! But no one cares. This is stupid.