Wednesday, March 12, 2014

On being a poet

On being a poet 

It's awful, having nothing to say,
To sit silent like a toad,
Breathing in and breathing out.

Yet how pleased he seems
To sit, sun and shadows,
Breeze to stir the reeds.

Look how his sides heave,
A bellows of deep rhythms.
Nothing in the bright bead eyes

Of shame or want. No whipping 
For missed flies, regret or condemnation.
Only is. Only am. Only he,

Uncensored by his mind,
Free to breathe. Little Buddha, 
Free to be. 


  1. Love, love, love it!!! (I'm stuck in silence at the moment....). I thought of this poem by the lovely Emily Dickinson when I read yours:

    I'm nobody! Who are you?
    Are you nobody, too?
    Then there 's a pair of us -- don't tell!
    They 'd banish us, you know.

    How dreary to be somebody!
    How public, like a frog
    To tell your name the livelong day
    To an admiring bog!

  2. I like the 'little Buddha' salute ;)