This poem is a weed

The weeds grow back I've decided to share that which has not been developed Meaning there is no prior thinking to these ideas- the source is emptiness, in fact currently there is nothing to share. When the flowers blossom then they will be there. To have a poet master is a triumph. To sit at his table and drink from his cup is to drink an ocean of bliss. Drinking from his cup is literal. I am not a symbolic poet. It is Kind of God to make the symbolic cup literal. Every day it seems the garden needs hoeing or the weeds grow back. Can the garden go 3 days or 5 days? What happens in two weeks? If only my love would grow like the weeds! Inside is a kernel of knowledge waiting to sprout. Life is a mystery. Man is in search of the truth The lucky few get magic words, the magic words open a door, the magic words burst open the kernal of knowledge, the seeds are planted, then the weeds grow back. What man thought was the completion of the journey Was only the beginning. Master poets leave a trail of words like rocks in the garden. Both flowers and weeds grow up around the rocks. The blind gardeners can not see the difference but can smell the flowers. They walk in a garden of ideas. The poet has a license to walk on the rocks. Cutting through the center, that is both straight and not straight. How do you draw a perfect circle free hand? Without guidance? Can a juggler do it? The juggler's ball flys in an ellipse. If the weeds be gone would you have plump tomatoes? Can you have honey with weeds? Who is the master herbalist In the garden? Does he have wings? This poem is a weed. DS Poem June 15, 2014 Mystic Poem

From Smiling Whiteness

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