01
- 02 - 03
- 04 -
05 -
06 -
07 - 08
|
A
Grey Day
A
cold grey day, silver blue
streaks
in the wind, the water,
cloud
puffs, driftwood lying in
the
sand, the tanker reappears
once
again,
blue,
red, squares on top of the
massive
slow moving hulk, speeding
forward,
nevertheless, to an unknown
industrial
destination, which is hyper
rational,
with no magic,
an
object of economic analysis, cancerous
hyper-growth,
a symbol for vacant politicians,
and
angry columnists, an icon of a world
filled
with American technologies, coercive
tools
and erosive toys,
a
world measured in money and summarized by
statistical
numbers and faceless demographics,
the
ocean is hitting the shore, it hits it a
hundred times a day, until it hits it perfectly,
a
rare moment,
with
water, spray, and wave,
not
pausing to savor the satisfaction
of
a certain moment.
|
|
The
Ocean
The
bridge is here, one turret glows
with
sunlight, the other is covered
by
clouds, the ocean has also never
left,
there are two seagulls in the
air,
they are unaware of compressed
time
and coercive employment,
of
this flopping competition, if you
practise
concentrating on your breathing,
you
may someday understand the teaching,
which
is not really particular, yet which
is
perfect, the profound truth of concentrated
practise,
which brings absolute freedom,
the
ocean is unaware of nuclear war, it has no
use
for Manhatten projects, you know--the UFOs
are laughing at the Star War blueprints being
cooked up in the military think tanks, but they
really take the concept of nuclear waste seriously,
in
the Buddah's day, the ocean always lived in
the moment, it had no ignorance,
------------
no life
------------
and no buddah.
|
|
The
Seagull
White neck and head,
grey
body, black rear,
yellow
beak, pink feet,
its
wobbling walk, quick
glances,
white foam
---------
ripples,
the ocean's
tongue
receding
-----------
and approaching,
the
lift-off, wings flapping,
--------
then soaring,
like
a glider with no movement,
a
fisherman casts a line,
---------
he gazes towards the unknown horizon,
you
know, devoting oneself
---
completely and sincerely,
to
one thing is not as easy
-
as it seems.
A
grey seagull and a white seagull,
stand
nearby the fisherman,
who
like a sentinel stands
with
his companions
----
400 yards apart,
and
you see, concentrating one's
--------
whole
physical and mental being
--
is supremely important,
a
grey seagull with a black beak,
and
flecks of brown
lands
on the sand,
and
flicks its head,
back
and forth,
giving
its whole mind
and
body,
to
what it sees,
to its washing, to its late breakfast,
and a shrill siren wails,
about this collateral damage,
the robber barons are stealing
-----------------
all the money needed to solve,
all
the problems in the
---------------
United States of
America.
|
|
Sand
A
soft mound, granules, brown
crystal, white, grey, black edges, oval,
hard rocky grains, polished, soft to the
breaking touch,
the
Buddah became lost in China,
the
foam, spider webs,
puddles
of water, in each written
-
wave, that crashes into the damp
sand,
when we become
sincere
about our daily
life,
we pay attention
to
everything,
and
everything has magic,
and
then there are no seagulls in the air.
|
01
- 02 - 03
- 04 -
05 -
06 -
07 - 08
All
contents of this site © Finberg Books 2000-2004 by Michael Arthur
Finberg
|