Ikkyu said it best:
writing something to leave behind is another kind of dream
when i awaken, i know that there will be no one to read it
the true master lowers himself into illusion every time he speaks
what is there to be said for the natural born teacher?
your genius must remain as hidden as your pending insanity,
a cerebral solar flare that eclipses the icy caverns of neptune
runs circles round mantras
shimmering mellow tones of grey luminosity
reach up the stratosphere and cry freedom
sometimes in silence,
sometimes aloud
the true master lowers himself into illusion every time he speaks
what's there to be said for the natural born teacher?
sisyphean griot destined to translate the circumference of pi
into astronomical units that the people can consume
bring the people together, and watch what comes forth
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sometimes the most refreshing things in the world can be
to just sit outside in the sun and sweat
rejuvenating elixir of early summer pheromones
that broil the skin to cool down the core
we wear our emotions like the shadows at our feet
ignoring and disbelieving the silent wisdom they contain
pressing the suppressing the proverbial inner voice
wringing the dirty laundry out
neglected impulses stretched taut
like kites shifting from one breeze to another
turning and turning in the midsummer air
the way of the samurai is silent immediacy
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a single moon clear and bright
in an unclouded sky
yet still we stumble in this world's darkness
how simple and chase were the words of the ancients
calligraphic star charts of mystery and sage wisdom
mapping out the middle passage
from the square to the circle
the chaff to the grain
inspiration poems are the best
not to take anything from those complex ideas
that curve along like a twisted valley carved
from years of weathered toil and erosion,
setting the boundaries on our mental tributaries
its the impulsive trips downstream that bring us closer to home
the next step is always right before the eyes
obscurity
passion
brutal honesty
that's a good place to start