THE GATE
I know it seems hard to grasp
but it's about opening your hand,
reaching for the Cup of Truth
hidden within your silent life.
Hand the script back to the director of the drama;
tell the playwright to cease adding words to the page.
Dare to be alone,
to meet yourself for the first time--really
realizing that unless you enter the life of your Great Story
no one
and nothing around you
can ever really offer you
a gift worth receiving.
It's about pulling back the curtain,
revealing what you've long hidden in shame,
and coming to understand for yourself
how it was always a treasure.
It's about comprehending
the hard-edged fact
that if you don't love yourself enough to take care of yourself
no one can ever trust you
when you tell them that you love them.
THE PATH
It all started as a seed...
of consciousness, that is, beneath the World Tree;
which is any tree if you are there properly.
It was there that He sat,
and was tested, and challenged,
until he cast off the husk of the self.
From there, a seed was passed
across time and great distances
from hand to hand.
When the seed
was planted at Koyasan,
a golden mandala bloomed;
a resting place for flowers thrown.
When the seed was planted at Kailash,
turquoise-colored birds
with flowing red scarves in their beaks
began flying East;
the true governors of Shambhala.
When the seed was planted at Angkor Wat,
even the roots of the trees cried out,
"Liberation!"
When the seed was planted
atop Linh Son mountain
the moon and sun held council
and drank tea.
Now the seed
drinks from the earth out on Beara's land,
deep in the dreaming Catskills.
The seed has been passed.
It is small and indestructible
but easily lost.
The seed contains a map.
The map leads to a gate
and the gate to a path.
Here, open your hand.
(c) 2016 / Saizan Owen / Pure Land Poetry
This poem will appear in the forthcoming book, The School of Soft-Attention, Saizan Owen, Homebound Publications
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