Evening Bell

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The ancient bell
of the temple summons
lost spirits to prayers;
murk figures roam alone
unacquainted on snow covered
mountains where peaks punctuate
streaming cauldron clouds, drawing birds
that circle the meditative winds.
Chimes from the west
bring the mist in to wander
with the wind from the east –
dusk strikes the temple bell
for worship; the tranquil mist then rolls away
and vanishes to re-join the hawks circling
the snowy peaks in peaceful
glide.

Absolute: Zen

Inspired by things to do by Leonard Durso

Is it the wind ‘s form
that makes the sound of
the clouds?

Listen for those
invisible things
craved,
elusive;
out of reach
to those of us
that remain
out of touch
with ourselves.

Aeons
of particles,
all the same substance
in parcels
brought,
stay unopened,
microscopic forms –
captive to suspicious frowns
and eyes
that lightly finger.

Automatic assumptions
make it a scorpion
in brown paper packaging
that becomes
the Trojan horse
of our dreams –
forbidden
in daylight –
because we are prepared
for those who dare,

but we forget we are one,
everyone is made
of the same substance,
packaging is made
of the same – substance
has no name or form.
Energy, mind, God and matter
are all name and form.
Everything is made of the same;
if we only understood
ourselves,
we would be at peace.

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