All is a system, Models clarify systems, Systems are models.
It’s turtles all the way down
Bodhisattva Christo
From the Fallen One I learned Of the vanity in pride. Adam and Eve taught me that, From the Creator you cannot hide. Noah’s lesson, to be ever fearful. Abraham was the Knight most faithful. To the wandering tribes of Israel, God commanded of the covenant hold. Master Moses who late realized, With the Divine be not too bold. To David the Lord of all Spoke of his temple in the heart. Erudite Solomon’s lesson, Better wise than smart. From Mary Magdalene and the Apostles, What greater gift than the Gospels, Those teachings of the Trinity Embodied in the Messiah, Christ the Son, That through compassionate love all are one. Namo Guru Christo.
A Shade’s Song
Not coins of silver, nor gold, nor platinum, Are accepted as passage by somber Charon, Who rules the coasts of Styx and Acheron. His grisly conditioned outstretched hands Take not but copper to ferry from those pitch sands. Only those who have kissed obol with cold blue lips Can board the grisly-hull which over shadow slips, Of the psychopomp son of Erebos and Nyx, The ferryman of ghosts across the river Styx. Kin to Thantos and Hypnos, death and sleep, Guardian and guide for those who gravely weep, Carrying away those furloughed souls, Over waters only navigable by his long pole. Grey eyed and of keen gaze, The one who sees through the deathly haze, Where others having met their doom See no horizon only fog of gloom. Psyche he bears on skiff most stable, Toward that dominion of Hades so sable. Hail, shepherd of souls over waters raven Bearer of spirits to the grey safe haven.
Ohm
Arrow finds its way, While the archer finds his breath, And bow hums away.
Nāmarūpa (name and form)
Before having poured
Water in the glass,
Where was the glass of water?
Subject to dependent origination,
As were its constituent parts,
As was the one who poured.
Arising from the causes
And consequences of karma,
Its impermanence
The source of dukkha,
Stemming from attachment.
Neither existing nor not,
Before conditioned arising,
As is the one who poured.
Where is Mahabodhi?
The setting sun
A tree line of pines encroaching shadowy line a sunset divine
Conceptual consciousness
Through contemplative wisdom, consciousness realizes the illusion that is self.
On a story told…
In her secret garden I lay, wishing she would say Of the ancient story, When Israel’s glory Was to Egypt sold. The story she told, of a vibrant luxurious coat, Soaked in the blood of a goat And of a father’s heart broken With naught but a crimson token. On Genesis we reflected And of the covenant rejected, Wondering if we would have made The choice for knowledge forbade, While in the secret garden I laid.
Ode to nature’s forgotten children
These simple lines, When combined, Into complex thoughts, Simple phonemic symbols, Ancient poets wrought, With power to make one tremble. Epics lyrical, Conceptual miracles, Tales of dawn’s hero’s, Arjuna of old, Achilles so bold. Through time, We forgot, The lessons they taught, Reverence of nature, from whom’s bosom we nurtured. When childlike, In virgin-woods we hiked. We explored, And the first-children adored. Before we self-reveled, And great mountains leveled. For what? For naught. For paper gold, Our mother we sold. To the muses I pray, For the eloquence to say, Of the pains I see, That we make be, With the felling of so many a tree. In the glades, Under canopy shade, Is where I would have my relics laid. Forevermore, These earthy remains, In the bosom I adore.