Sunday, June 24, 2012


I think it is enough,
at times,
to go without knowing
where the end is,
what the beginning - 
so long ago.

Perhaps you have friends
who can whisper
such things
in your ear,
hear little bits of 
in the laughter of children

But mostly we just proceed ahead,
not remembering
how it all started,
where it is leading,
not sure
if we are the waiting animal
or the animal's passing
in the grass.

Dorothy Walters
Photo:  Peter Bowers 

Friday, June 22, 2012

The Bright Core of Failure (or.. My Heart is a Saucepan)

Sometimes you enter the heart.  Sometimes
you're born from the soul.  Sometimes you

weep a song of separation:  all the same
glory.  You live in beautiful forms and

you're the energy that breaks images.  All 
light, neither this nor that.  Human beings

go places on foot; angels, with wings.  Even
if they find nothing but ruins and failure,

you're the bright core of that.  When angels
and humans are free of feet and wings, they'll

understand that you are that lack, pure
absence.  You're in my eyes like a taste of 

wine that blocks my understanding.  That
ignorance glorifies.  You talk and feel in

the talking:  kingdom, finances, fire, smoke,
the senses, incense:  all are your favourites! 

A ship, Noah, blessings, luck, troubles that 
pull us unknowingly toward treasure:  look,

he's being dragged away from his friends! 
Nobody will see him anymore.  This is your

story.  I ask you, "Should I talk to this one?
Is he being drawn to me?"  Silence.  That too.  

What is desire? What is it! Don't laugh, my
soul.  Show me the way through this desiring.

All the  world loves you, but you are nowhere
to be found.  Hidden and completely obvious.

You are the soul! You boil me down in a 
saucepan, then ask why I'm spilling out.  Is

it time for patience?  Your bright being.  My
heart is a saucepan.  This writing, the record

of being torn apart in your fire, as aloe
wood most becomes itself when burning up.

Enough talk about burning!  Everything, even
the end of this poem, is a taste of your glory.


Wednesday, June 13, 2012

The True Person

The true person is 
Not anyone in particular; 
But, like the deep blue colour
of the limitless sky,
It is everyone, everywhere in the world.


Friday, June 1, 2012

Mother, Silence

Sometimes when life is difficult,
I curl up in my Mother's lap 
and drink her ever-present love
that never has required
a single thing to change.

And when my life requires courage,
or I don't know what to say
or how to be, 
I go to her and
listen with my heart.

My Mother birthed the world
and everything that's in it.
Her wisdom excludes nothing; 
and yet she rushes to my side
if I but beckon her.

What a pure, abiding presence
is my Mother, Silence.  

Dorothy Hunt
photo:  Peter Bowers

Love is...

Love is what gives joy to creatures.
Love is what provides all sorts of happiness.
We were not born from women; love gave birth to us.
A hundred blessings and praises to our mothers ! 

photo:  Peter Bowers