This is the last post in the splashingbird blog. All of the posts have been moved to “born of silence” at ( At the end of this week I’ll point splashing bird .com and .org to

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
the harvest come and gone
the earth is still, awaiting spring

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

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



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