Empty hands

You neither can enter nor leave
No Zendo, no Buddha, nobody
Nothing to turn into,throwing everything
Empty hands will show you the way

True color, mokuren

Right in the midst of this beautiful life, bumpy and vast, a poem to express what a priest can do, nothing but a few stitches and yet and yet...



As the needle goes
through the field of mokuren
birds songs
traffic sounds
even the distant train
even
your sweet face clouded with suffering

all of them
all are sewn
into mokuren

true color

myozan's words

O master of the fallen blossom, the stars reflected in your Buddha bowl,

Where are your eyes when you beg outside the train station?

With your bruised heart, if we follow your tears we will find them.

They are the eyes of Kannon, hidden under straw from commuters,

They are the soft eyes in the palm of each of her ten thousand hands.

They do not weep only, but shine with sake, light up with women.

Those who do not look at you see only a patch-robed ghost,

Blown by the wind of departing trains, as transparent as a petal

From a plum blossom, trampled on the filthy street. With your bowed head,

You hold your skull in your hands as an offering,

In it rests the violets, the dandelions of this floating world,

Your visions and poems which you offer freely to the air,

Your ocean-deep laugh, thunderous roar, the sword of your silence.

If you are a fool, let us now abandon this search to be wise.

More useless and stupid poems

Beaming with joy

Im front of a carved Kannon

A blind man 

Aux anges

Devant une statue de Kannon

Un aveugle

He swallows his snot

And spread his legs

A pig -like boy 

Il avale sa morve

Les jambes ecartees

Ce cochon de garcon

One taste of it

And the whole world turns into

Macha ice cream

Y gouter une seule fois

Et le monde devient

Une glace au macha

Autumn trees

Show the way to

A patched robe fool

Les arbres en automne

Montrent le chemin

A un idiot a la robe rapiecee

If only thoughts

Could drop as easily as

Autumn leaves

Turbulente

Comme mes pensees

Neige

Restless

Like my thoughts

Snow

A little old woman and

A pack of white hanckies

blood pissing everywhere

shukke tokudo

Some thirty years ago, Shukke Tokudo from Mokusho Zeisler in the Gendronniere. It was like yesterday. Time flew. 

gassho

Taigu

Self portrait

Taigu at 48

les mains en mudra

la tete dans les nuages

sceptre de bois crasseux

hands in mudra

head in clouds

filthy wooden scepter

Abbe dans la bourrasque
bon a rien
je me trimballe dans les trois mondes

Abbot in the wind

Good at nothing

I roam the three worlds

Miroir en pièces
ni vertu ni sagesse ni Bouddha
ma vie

broken mirror

no virtue no wisdom no Buddha

my life

blue mountain green waters

there is nothing

unseen or untold

here

blue mountains

walk and bow

in stillness