Zen Poetry

Always the Choice

Unavoidable me, always wanting

Another voice, like the wind in the treetops.

Nothing to acquire, no one to blame.

Always the choice,

Which guide to follow?

I’m sorry, this is not what I wanted.
I know what I want, I know what I like,
And I’m not going to be happy until I get it.

Who is this voice?
Who does it think it’s talking to?
Who is listening?

The echo is so convincing.
Following without question the myths of our own creation.

The birds in the trees, the lawn mower next door,

the garbage truck, bang, clang, roar,

“My back’s a little stiff”

And so the river flows.

From where comes the idea

that Siddhartha in his most radiant moment was other than this?

The wind rustles the leaves and leaves no trace.

Total surrender.

Just this.

Speaking of emptiness, the alarm clock still rings.

Turn the key, leave home,

click the mouse, answer the phone.

A dewdrop on a flower petal contains the whole world.