Poetry & Scrawlings

Who Am I?

I think, therefore I am?

Descartes described

How thought gave meaning to our forms

So with my thoughts I abide

Just to give this a try

And thoughts all arose one by one

In a clear bright sky

Some low, some high

Then vanished just as they begun

If I am thinking

Defined by thoughts

Which arise but never linger

Or bob in a line

Like a stitch in time

Or swallowed by something bigger.

How can these thoughts possibly be me?

There would be countless me’s

Or none

And what self can stand?

Who can demand?

To keep playing the game til it’s won

So who am I?

When my thoughts cease to fly

And they have all disappeared one by one

Just the pristine sky

Where stars upon high

Even the sun in the sky

Pass leaving no trace

That’s right, none

————–

Dear Me

Today you may see logic fail

Don’t try to explain everything.

Grasping meaning to no avail

It’s just a turning of the season

Standing up defying reason.

Don’t try to follow on this trail

I thought love was forever

But bliss gave way to emptiness

Eternity is more like never

Another turning of the season

A betraying kind of treason

Don’t try to be so clever

So exactly what’s this thing called self?

I knew it when I was someone else

But time snatches it away with such stealth

Am I changing with the season?

Personality’s that will breeze in

And flow out in a swell

Dear Me

Don’t be sad that it’s all gone

There are treasures all around you

Don’t cry because you’re wrong

It’s another kind of season

Let others be the reason

The perfect path to walk

————–

Bodhiclast (Inspired By the Adventures Of Sogyal Rinpoche)

Triple Gem Tabloid

Put me to wise

Of Rinpoche now man

Cut down to size

His penchant for snagging

The female neurotics

To circumambulate

His manly hydraulics

They’re not to chortle

But remain in a stupor

Keep your mouth shut

Be a good trooper

But a woman who’s scorned

Now that’s something to fear

And two screamed it out

And someone did hear

So millions were paid

And their mouths were all shut

But the word is now out

We know he’s a slut.

This ain’t something new

It’s a very old story

The icons are smashed

Or faded in glory

The Rev is a wanker

The Roshi smokes dope

His Holiness cruises

For chicks with the Pope

Your innocence is lost

Overwhelmed by the fact

That Mother Theresa the saint

Was found on her back

So I ask the big question

What’s going on here

I’ll ask lama Bud

He’s the tulku of beer

He’s the dorje of chang

With a yab, and a yum

He is one tantric

Son-Of-A-Gun

He took a big swig

Then belched 20 times

Then started mumbling

About the nature of mind

Then it just hit me

But before I got started

I coudn’t say it

So instead I just farted