THE QUESTION

I visited my church this afternoon; I call it the Chapel of Heaven Meets Earth.
The ceiling, a great swath of steel blue so heavy, so close,
The weight drapes itself over the tips of the tallest evergreens.
The floors, a cushiony bed of soft pine needles, shuffling
And crackling through the dried leaves, my feet never tire.
The majestic windows are stained with red and gold and russet
And the sun plays with my optic nerves. Pixels of light
Render me blind and then clear; I relish this childlike
Game of hide and seek.
I don’t come here to pray…it is a prayer this place.
But a question did come “what should I be doing?”
I asked the Buddha’s, the Bodhisattvas, Kwan Yin and all
The others before me. The answer comes back “stay
On the path, one foot in front of the other”.
I hate it when they say that, (I’ve asked many times)
And continue on the trail.
The Stations of the Cross in this church are ancient, exposed root systems,
Extending away from massive tree trunks, suggesting I might look down
Every once in a awhile if I don’t want to trip;
Naked, spindly branches closest to the ground and furthest from the sun,
Thundering waterfalls, cascading over 18 inch high boulders (oh, what confidence!),
Invisible fairies shaking and rattling the tangled bush and me…
Peering intently inside, trying to identify the culprits.
My path takes me back to where I began, but now mind and body are one.
So quiet and peaceful, no question no answer, just walking.

Quang Prasad

THIRTY MINUTES

Can I sit with this

jumpiness, grumpiness

this thinking,

this meditation?

Can I sit with this

drippy nose,

these heavy eye lids

this imagination?

Can I sit with this

impatience

this boredom

and ache?

Renewed and inspired,

determined and steady,

I feel myself

sit without doubt.

No delusion nor regret,

all arises and fades.

The feelings,

the drama and tales.

All part of the flow....

the expanse

and release

Breathing in, breathing out,

Sitting here on this cushion.

THE JOURNEY

Sitting on a bus,

close to the window

I watch the scenery flash by.

Each frame a different view. Not scenery, no...

rapid snapshots: mystical, fantastical.

How can this be happening I think

to myself. It can't be true – these things don't

happen in real time, I must be dreaming.

I hear my voice say, yes, it can.

I am the creator, the author,

of all of this.

The projection and the observer are inseparable.

Arriving at my destination, I

open my eyes, refreshed and awakened

to this world, the dream lingering....

~ Quang Prasad

FALL COLOURS

The first time I passed, I saw only
a form lying under a pale yellow blanket
in a red tiled door-well.
Few possessions, cans of food
a single pair of mens black shoes.

The second pass, I witnessed
if only for a brief moment,
more than a form.
Brown skin, black hair, a woman
not looking at anyone in particular,
focused on her spot, our eyes did not meet.

I quickly averted my glance,
not allowing (wanting?) them to connect.
Who was she? Someone's daughter, yes.
A wife, mother, sister, lover,
maybe all of these.

Lying in the open,
on a cement sidewalk, with out walls to
hide her vulnerability.
Her privacy seemingly intact
on this busy city street, with its
smells, garbage, vomit, and passers-by.

A day and several hours, a world away,
walking lightly on a wooded path,
the air smells of earth, dry leaves and warm wind.
Brilliant sunshine, illuminates the crimson and gold.
Maple leaf, exquisitely cut out in sharp detail
appear superimposed in the forest canopy.

Tree trunks squeak as they gently embrace.
Families, couples, strangers pass me by, smiling, friendly
others quietly focusing on their steps, mindful of the
trail edge.

I look intently at the red and yellow carpet
of the forest floor and try to capture, the light,
the dappled softness in my mind, imagining
how someday I might paint this picture.

All is dharmakaya.
This is my dharmakaya.

~ Quang Prasad

http://www.compassionateconsumption.blogspot.com/

SITTING ON CUSHION

Sitting on cushion,

I am Buddha

I am Kuan Yin.

Buddha,

Kuan Yin are me.

I am everyone who has gone before.

I am everyone yet to be.

Smiling…knowing….

I

Am not.

Prasad Michele Purdy