A poem simply sounds the bell, of that which words could never tell.

ZEN

The Zen garden
A moment of stillness
Petrified in time
Ripples in the gravel
So devotionally raked
Halted in their disturbance
Caught in mid pace
Shades of grey
The middle path they say
Between black and white
Half the way to certainty

Worn smooth
By mountain torrents
Quite at ease
Though far from home
The centrepiece
A dome of stone
Frozen
Flexing its polished back
Like a cat
A glimpse perhaps
A crack in continuity
A portal for intuition
Sentient feeling
Knowledge and will
Always existed

Soon after
That first long
Wistful sigh
When space
Clotted into worlds
Before the gardener came
To rake and tend
Were stones the guardians
Of awareness
Perfectly at one
Silent and sure
Today tomorrow
And evermore


Post a Comment