Richard Farrell: haiku and other observations
This is the last post in the splashingbird blog. All of the posts have been moved to “born of silence” at http://www.bornofsilence.com (http://bornofsilence.wordpress.com). At the end of this week I’ll point splashing bird .com and .org to bornofsilence.com.
The bird splashes still, but at different place and with a different name.
the cost of inauthentic living is likely despair before death
revenge is a dish best served not at all
the great American illusion is that the pursuit of happiness will result in it
until you know what you are, how can you know who you are?
how remarkable, we celebrate only youth even as our own disappears
leaf after leaf floats,
like the moments of our living,
until the last one touches ground
leaves linger
slowly baring branches
this year a late fall
thou hast no self to k(no)w
the fields are dirt
again,
the harvest come and gone
again,
the earth is still, awaiting spring
again
life resolves in mystery not explanation
flying wing of geese
honks its way south,
in their wake: winter
none of us is spared the exactness of a fate
even after his heart attacked him, he still thought he was immortal
the truth is for most part an illusion with which people tranquilize themselves thinking that they have it or will, at worst, someday
a quest for the Truth most likely ensnares, at worst enslaves
the sun moves faster,
last summer blossoms
float into fall
she,
not being here,
neither needs me nor feeds me
now that I’m 64
everything is impermanent, even this wish that it weren’t
bullshit is fatiguing
a life unshared is a life half-lived
sun sets,
day cares fade,
now: the peace of night descends
fixed income
rising prices
the blues
the Tao,
immortal Way,
is no way
black and white -
crows, egrets
in the rice fields, feeding
one-legged jay,
hops, pecks,
screeching flies off
east flying crows
caw & caw,
announce the fall of night
emotions trump the intellect;
the poetic, the reasonable
all talk of the Way
breaks the silence,
some with good cause
one-legged jay
scruffier than the rest
hops about scattered seed
a way that becomes the way leads nowhere
the unsayable when spoken is silence
the notion of enlightenment obstructs transparent living (unless it doesn’t)
since one can only be (is) and not observe the One,
nothing can be said about it, not even this
the Truth of advaita is that there is no truth of advaita
post-modern advaita: too much talk about Nothing
having the truth blinds us to what is
the self arising at this moment can never see itself
forgiveness is the best revenge
you can neither know thyself nor no thyself
could we be the species
that entertains itself
into extinction?
sometimes at night I
(not speaking, but spoken,
not singing, but sung)
wonder at words
bringing the world into being
where in a world out of balance do we find center but in this moment?
at any moment
gone (perhaps)
splat like a fly
in many mirrors,
in many windows,
my reflection…growing older
affable cop on day off
shares tricks of trade
with violators
even the Dalai Lama gets the blues;
he just doesn’t have them for long
“what is” is neither perfect nor imperfect, it simply is
dusk in the valley,
crows gather, flock,
10,000 caws
not two — the interpreter and the interpreted
