Dharma Library

Standing in the yard,
my face turned up to the sky;
soft blessings of rain.

Shimmering orange
of the tree’s pyrotechnics;
the dark bracken rests.

Backlit by a flame
I see my projection,
watchfully waiting.

I look down to see
two old hands resting on my lap;
winter is coming.

I was thinking of
the purity of lotus blossoms,
and slipped in the mud.

Quiet Mind

When the quiet mind comes
I am moving up steadily
Hold after hold
Rock is under my hands
Under my feet
Sky above
Earth below 

When the quiet mind comes
I am in the midst of music
Note following note
Hands, steel and timber
All one
As each song unfolds 

When the quiet mind comes
I am ocean floating
On a glassy board
Waiting for the only wave
That will carry me
To shore

When the quiet mind comes
I am…

Look up!
Soot grey snowflakes
dancing, whirling, falling, landing –
white side up.

Silence…
What is there?
What IS there?

Chestnut bud in a vase
Feels pain in her green petals forcibly opened
By a greedy glance

Achoo!!!
The whole universe
Broke into pieces 

This mouthful of tea
Never drunk before
Nor ever again

An old monk
Slowly walking step by step
Through a violent storm

Frost
Winter may come any day now
Where has the last one gone? 

The stream
Flowing all the time
Never tired

Sprin…

Planting a great oak at Shawbottom
and returning each year to say, “I did that”,
that would be something.
The sapling trees were ready in pots,
the spade resting against the shed.

I could only claim a short-lived success
weeding between the paving slabs.
About his many enlightenment experiences
Sawaki Roshi once said,
“they didn’t amount to a whole hill of beans”.

In my secret koan, ‘Tokusan’s Bowls’,
eg…

The fresh crisp morning air assails my senses as I quietly close the kitchen door behind me. The gravel crunches under my feet, yet all is silent.

I turn the corner of the street and the south-west wind rushes across my face.

I hear the sea before I see the sea, for all is still dark at this early hour.

The smell of wet briny beach is strong as I descend the steps to the beachside path and turn…

the guest house by rumi 

This being human is a guest house. 

Every morning a new arrival. 

A joy, a depression, a meanness, 

some momentary awareness comes 

as an unexpected visitor… 

Welcome and entertain them all! 

Be grateful for whoever comes, 

because each has been sent as a 

guide from beyond. 

Communicating in a group via the Internet during a viral pandemic has been an…

1994 

I attend my first Western Zen Buddhist retreat at Maenllwyd. The small Welsh farmhouse stands on a hillside at the end of a rough track below a narrow wooded valley, which leads up to a bare horizon. It just sits there, with no electricity, amidst the fields of sheep, aloof and barely visible from the straggly village some way below. The eastern horizon offers wide skies for the sunrise and…

Rushing off to begin a solitary retreat last month, I suddenly remembered that I wanted to check something in the liturgy so, in a hurry (yes, I know!!), I grabbed the first copy I could find and set off to my hut. Only later, once I’d settled down, did I take a look and realise that it was a very old copy indeed. To my surprise, there, on the front cover (see overleaf), is some writing in John’s…

For a few moments I believe I’ve forgotten what day it is. The pandemic has removed an element of usual time for me as my accustomed props and punctuations of the week have become redundant and my old map for time spent has become obsolete. Global and local are now not so separated as ‘remote’ acquires a new meaning and I can spend time, described as real, with distant friends. I idle away at bits…