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Poetry
Mindful
Every day
I see or
hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with
delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of
light.
It was what I was born for -
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside
this soft world -
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and
acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the
dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the
very drab,
the daily
presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you
help
but grow wise
with such
teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean's
shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?
by Mary Oliver
Reflections
on a Buddha
Whose life is this?
Whose breathing,
snoring,
hunk
of throbbing flesh,
A heartbeat pulsing through these
veins…
Who
could possibly own such a mess?
A heap of tangled
wires,
thoughts
and feelings run amok,
wild
with their own craziness,
the
uncertainty and madness of it all.
Yet…
Such
beauty as none other could ever know.
The
simply elegant,
fantastic
play of light
throwing
shadows of leaves
dancing
against the wall,
the
wind playing lightly,
tenderly with the
blinds.
Such beauty.
The
perfect stillness,
Quiet
holding one to the breast,
soft,
smooth, warm,
silently
caressing…
The peace that joy brings,
stealthily,
like a burglar
tip-toeing
across a carpeted floor,
hoping
to disturb no one.
A sneeze shatters the silence,
breaking
it open into hundreds of little pieces,
blown
away,
carried
in the wind
to
unknown destinations.
Whose life is this?
Whose breathing,
eating,
shitting,
groaning,
moaning,
dancing,
Joy-permeated
existence
is this?
To whom does this radiant darkness
belong?
To whom do “I” give thanks?
Each moment,
including
those in which I’m screaming
for
release,
redemption,
surrender,
the
end to all this suffering.
Who is thanking whom?
Who gives, who receives?
In this infinite abyss of darkness
changing into
light,
changing
into darkness,
and
into light again,
It all merges into the great ONE.
Lover and beloved,
Student and teacher,
Parent and child,
Giver and receiver,
As we recognize ourselves in one
another,
as
we were,
are,
and
will be always.
© Carey Cloyd
The Guest House
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!
Even if they're a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of its furniture,
still, treat each guest honorably.
He may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
by Rumi
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For more information, call Carey at (415) 488-6854
