The Little Monks


The little monks stood
On pearly white chunks of snow
Carpets of verdant grass language
Flowering irises

And they spoke to us
Of dream lotuses
A glassy tear rolling down Buddha’s countenance
Golden domes of crimson fire
Prayer wheel murmurs
Yellow silk and paper roses
And innocence.

In the heart of war they stood
Blazing like a thousand constellations
And spoke of lamb fleece
And peace.

Far away from hatred-spewing violent sermons
Glorious white they stood
Upon aster-strewn pulpits
And sang in baby talk
Like wind chimes tinkling
Tinkling passionately in the storm.

They told us of Bodhisattva
Who slept in the pollen of an unknown flower.
Bodhisattva the death slayer
Who whispered across births
In the antlers of a martyred antelope
In the howling nights of a Himalayan monastery
Bodhisattva who reincarnated
As aeons of windy plains
As tremulous bamboo music
As shivering waters in silver streams
Bodhisattva, the zephyrous trance breath
Levitating like an incandescent orb of peace.

They smiled like an annihilation of impurities
All indifference conquered
Under their tender barefeet
Running across rabbit lands.

The little monks with their round moon heads
Rained azure purity
Their dainty finger buds
Caressing eternity.

Jasmine-breath babies
Walk the earth untainted
Love sprouts in the valleys
We need garland makers not gunmen
Poets and not politicians
Dreamers and not death angels
Flower girls and not fraudulent saints

All ye mortals in the veil of sanity
Followers, disciples instinct-haters
Upholders of ancient lies
War mongers
Political godmen
Conditioned androids
Blind painters
Hark! The delicate anklets of truth
While it dances dances dances

Strumming the ephemeral ether strings
For ripples of musical energy
The little monks stood in silence
As the Books of Lies burned
In a gentle inferno
Of what is – Truth.

6 thoughts on “The Little Monks

  1. It is already the second day after you posted this, and yet, no comment. Tsk, tsk.

    Your imagination is towering in form and splendid in its perceptions of peace. I am trying to put a tune to this and make a song of it, but my guitar string broke. Perhaps I should write a poem about Mr. Murphy and his incomparably honorable visitations.

  2. When I saw pictures of little monks, I wondered at the sight so beautiful in front of me, at their faces and the innocence in them, the rapt observation, sensed the calm in their minds, and wondered whether I will ever be as blissful.

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