Who they are
Why they are
Who they are
Why they are
Not to go to church
Is not to not do something
But do what church does
Just attend ordinary
Minute by minute this life
Deleting emails from gmail to get back more room.
Would love to find the delete button for some of the stupidity bunching up on twitter and the congressional representatives no longer making any sense, rhyme, or reason.
Dockline through hawse.
Boarding ramp fixed in place.
If the highest aim of a captain were to preserve his ship, he would keep it in port forever. —Thomas Aquinas, (1225-1274)
No plowed waves.
No foghorn heard.
Ghost ships never have to worry about exhausting fuel or getting anywhere.
The zen monk wanders over the distant horizon to 7,500 light year’s away Carina Nebula with one push of wooden oars on a snowy morning seeing, as it is, what is long gone but only now arriving.
Last year our permanent bridge got washed away.
God is good!
(So says the mountain sluice.)
The love of truth is the love of disappearing separateness.
The delusion of antagonism fastens our feet outside the passageway into our true home.
If we love truth we step out from hardening cement shoes across our fears onto soft invitation.
One foot in front of another we circumambulate the altar of willing inclusion and devoted respect to the eponymous gathering of brothers and sisters, all our relations mirroring the great spirit of truth, love, and the good humor of our collective absurdity.
She said it in 1970 in her 4th floor apartment, “Christ is emergence.”
Her words remain a koan.
They ask constantly, “What do you understand by this?”
I tire of those
Who say “Jesus, Jesus” all
day long, as if…(look,
I’m sure he was a good guy,)
but, madonne, enough , stop
with the preaching — just sit down
Give me spaghetti
With Romano cheese, butter
Some seltzer, thank you
So many emails --
buy this, read this, learn this -- hey!
hey! they say, look at
me, I'm here to help you, save
you, hook you up -- wow --
I must be loved by
these folks, going out of their
way to include me --
or -- have I become a mark,
a marketing dart target
Do I still have choice
to be unseen, unconsumed
to wander snow deep
through droop trees on mountain slope
where only path is my steps
Whence, come words?
We consider bibles and religions divine —I do not say
they are not divine,
I say they have all grown out of you, and may grow out
of you still,
It is not they who give the life, it is you who give the life,
Leaves are not more shed from the trees, or trees from
the earth, than they are shed out of you.
(--Walt Whitman, in Song for Occupations)
Where, the divine?
Old philosophy professor from 1968 on YouTube lectures on The Logic of Religion.
He died in 2021.
Found his work yesterday.
I can’t resubmit my papers to him for reconsideration these fifty five years later.
I find him; he’s dead.
Post hoc, ergo, propter hoc.
Have I learned nothing?
I have no classified documents in my hermitage.
I’m such a nobody.
Only psalms and sutras, philosophy articles, poems, and koans.
Please, come search the place.
Take them away.
They confuse me.
Yes. It’s what we say
when truth sits across from us
flanking both sides, sets
up behind us, sitting strong
enwrapping us with Itself
Friend in prison
Yields tee-shirt idea:
Leave me alone”
For those of us
“Sag hallo und
Seasonal Affective Disorder saturates
the coast of Maine. Snow. Ice. Cold. January.
We each affect one another
Look at kitchen sink in morning, pots and dishes
Forks, knives, spatula and sodden sponge
Tell me o muse about the man
Looking at the mess with fresh coffee in hand