Literary Zen XII
I don’t know why people expect art to make sense. They accept the fact that life doesn’t make sense.
writing is sorrow ~ having had written is sublime
I don’t know why people expect art to make sense. They accept the fact that life doesn’t make sense.
I’m told to live my life like There’s no tomorrow But truly There has to be a better way For if the morrow never comes And it’s my last breath I breathe today How will I know to appreciate it For won’t I be too enthralled, too focused, too busy with Living As much as … Read more
The river winds around my head, Fish before my eyes. I lay my cheek upon its bed and Contemplate the skies of Morning’s red, of Midday’s blue, of Twilight’s pink aglow, that Filters through the rushing stream Born of mountains long ago. Where does it go in such a rush from Rushing ’bout my mind? … Read more
whither comes the light alas, what matters the source while soon comes the night
In a field depleted and left a fallow Where only single crops have e’er grown ‘Twill sundry bloom soon rich, tho’ callow When by Nature’s hand the seeds are sown
time doesn’t matter to the purposed honey bee tasting the nectar
the wind blows duly but don’t tell that to the ant toiling against it
How long, you simpletons, will you insist on being simpleminded? How long will you mockers relish your mocking? How long will you fools hate knowledge? Proverbs 1:22, New Living Translation O, but the mockers’ cry Makes my heart afraid, As though a flute of bone Taken from a heron’s thigh, A heron crazed by the … Read more