Sitting quietly, doing nothing, spring comes, and the grass grows by itself….

Wake up! Your conscious is alive
A heart praying, a world listening…..

an illusion of the mind in a dark moment
Silence, how sweet is that sound?

One hand is open, and the other?
A flame is rising, a spark has arrived……..

Unfettered at last, a traveling monk,
I pass the old Zen barrier.
Mine is a traceless stream-and-cloud life,
Of these mountains, which shall be my home?

My legacy – What will it be?
Flowers in spring,
The cuckoo in summer,
And the crimson maples Of autumn …

Opening bell
echoes from the canyon walls —
raindrops on the river.

The sounds of rocks bouncing off rocks;
the shadows of trees traced on trees.

I sit, still.
The canyon river chants,
moving mountains.

The sermon spun on the still point:
dropping off eternity, picking up time;
letting go of self, awakened to Mind…..

A haiku is not a poem, it is not literature; it is a hand becoming,
a door half-opened, a mirror wiped clean. It is a way of returning
to nature, to our moon nature, our cherry blossom nature, our
falling leaf nature, in short, to our Buddha nature. It is a way in
which the cold winter rain, the swallows of evening, even the very
day in its hotness, and the length of the night, become truly
alive, share in our humanity, speak their own silent
and expressive language……..

Yellow young spring
Sky full of hope
Future won’t come.

Frenzy of insects
Heat of our star
The past has dissolved.

Red humid forest
Light rays in fog
Shattering silence.

Black naked trees
White topping of snow
A perfect year gone……

peace and harmony…

namaste….