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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