Sailing west

Dreaming end-time

noreply@blogspirit.com (Leo b.i.f.) — Fri, 27 Jan 2006 18:03:08 +0000

Volcano sleeping
awakens, pitch dark ashes
sun bleeding dark blood

no stars listening
voices strangled in roaring
names dying on lips

haunted by his fear
not even in the last house
he finds his refuge

door of agony
enters in room of defeat
black burned rags moving

broken shards of glass
are light themselves in darkness
of soulless presence

light losing battle
last trees, no leaves left, protest
soon silenced forever

dark night closing in
red burning fist squeezes heart
scream smothered in pain

only grey ash remains
frozen grey waves touch the sky
endtime, dumb stillness

it must be day now
dark cannot stay closed longer
light piercing eyelids

only one birdsong
necessary for waking
earth in ecstasy.

Sleepless

noreply@blogspirit.com (Leo b.i.f.) — Thu, 29 Dec 2005 09:51:21 +0000

Then I am alone with my words
and lay them to rest
Tell them little stories
so that they will not wake up
returning to their speaking

After consolation
for misunderstanding
my sweet word-children
roll themselves
in their blankets,
thumb in mouth,
sleeping for a while,
I am alone without them
catching some sleep at last.

Important meetings with little friends.

noreply@blogspirit.com (Leo b.i.f.) — Fri, 16 Dec 2005 13:10:00 +0000

Two important meetings. One yesterday and one just this morning.
Made me realize, that during the singing of the Nembutsu another choir of little animals around the house were joining us in our singing, there little beings taken up in the same song of life and light; everything sings Nembutsu.

Yesterday a squirrel looked at me.
Twitched his beautiful tail a few times, always somewhat ambiguous this twitching tails of my friends the squirrels: contempt, happiness, annoyance or what?
He kept looking at me, waiting, then he turned upside down and hanging from a thin branch, he went on with what he was doing. Eating nuts out of the container we hang out there for the birds. “Namo Amida Bu mate,” I said to him. He looked me in the eye again, but when I took one step nearer, he fled away in the trees. The nuts, first moving by his sudden flight, were hanging still now in the autumn air.
It was in the absence of my active friend, so present only moments before, that the invitation opened for squirrels and birds alike, to feed to their hearts delight. And I only could mumble in this space, please come and eat our little friends, the pleasure is all ours.
Namo Amida Bu.

This morning’s meeting was with Timmy. He is the robin that is coming from nowhere after a while and sits every time on the same branch, by the porch, looking at me. He is telling me the story of the day. He is a small bird, but small birds can have great stories. It is just that his small feather-body with the red breast he is so proud of, cannot contain the many words we are using to tell the great stories. So he needs not much time to tell me about the whole of life he is part of, this morning. I say, ‘Hi Timmy,’ then he invariably hips two -, or when he is in a exhilarating mood, three times on his branch, looks at me with his little black eyes, and is off to robin business. Namo Amida Bu, I call after him, he did not look back, he never does, but with his little voice he said: ‘Tsjilp.’ That means in Robin language: Namo Amida Bu. And in the widening space between us when he flew away, my heart sang a little bird song:
Namo Amida Bu, everything is Nembutsu.