the singing of the bees

by Yokoyama Taikan

--

so this is how it is 

to be an old man 

I say that aloud 

and my doggo 

doesn't even look up

--

a wet winter 

followed by a perfect spring 

and my jasmine has bloomed early 

so lovely  and fragrant 

the bees buzz around 

singing 

singing 

--

The city pretended to be a small town, then a village. People wore shoes that had pockets where they could put little things like keys or coins. Every one had their own individual language and spoke only that, a language they invented themselves. Everyone had hallucinogenic mushrooms, everyone was happy. It was all so good that I realized I was dreaming, as I so often do in my dreams. 

--

the days of my death are numbered
from one to ten
day one lasted for ten million centuries
and I grew older, more tired
and less wise every day
the second was shorter than the first
but infused with passion and energy
both positive and negative
I went through the hours loving and fighting
waging war and peace
everything except indifference
I am a slow learner
the third is now ending
a day where I took refuge in the buddha
in the dharma and in the sangha
and so the remaining days do not matter
quite as much   I will sweep and clean

--

Winding the old clock, I ask it about all of the hours it has shared with me. No answer, just the sound of morning rain.

--

poems & prose poems by james lee jobe 

by Yokoyama Taikan

Please support this blog with a small donation through the the Buy Me A Coffee link at the bottom of the page. Thanks.

A worthy book! I love it.

--

Handling our suffering is an art. If we know how to suffer, we suffer much less, and we're no longer afraid of being overwhelmed by the suffering inside. 

Thich Nhat Hanh

--

Reading in the heat of noon

I grow sleepy, put my head

on my arm and doze off.

I forget to close the window

and the warm air blows in

and covers my body with petals.

Yuan Mei

--

Meditation is not just a rest or retreat from the turmoil of the stream of the impurity of the world. It is a way of being the stream, so that one can be at home in both the white water and the eddies.

Gary Snyder

--

Even birds

don't cry now;

that bloodshot

one-eye may have left the sky.

Miyazawa Kenji

--

When you do something, you should burn yourself up completely, like a good bonfire, leaving no trace of yourself. 

Shunryu Suzuki

--

by Yokoyama Taikan

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james