Why We Practice Dharma

We practice dharma because we think the feeling
Of longing for a past lover is real,
Or because of the overwhelming dullness
Of sitting around an artificial bonfire –
Gas sprayed up among plastic logs like
Some unholy semen –
And watch those still glued to the receiver,
Doing everything they can to escape
Get away from being here, only to
Catch a fleeting glimpse of some
Cloudy, intoxicated bliss.

 I sometime lament the fact that
Everyone acts more like a Buddha after
A few shots. What if we could be that loving all the time?
That’s why we practice dharma.

Those moments when your stomach twists into
Frightening knots, emotions seeming real
Like fire, or ice, and all that will pull us through
Is the mind, and faith in the great masters of the lineage.
Glory to the wondrous Shangpa!
 Praise to the wise Zen sages!
It’s all one.
Dharma.
Neuroplasticity!


Dripping, bloody red clouds at sunset,
And distant blue mountain peaks calling
In the distance, like some Indian flute
Carried by the autumn breeze.
 Flowering blossoms of spring!
Apricots! Cherries! You flower
Of yourself!
Nothing to ask for,
Nothing to wait for.
Just a flowing,
An easeful drift into glory, blooming into petals
That contain the entire essence of the doctrine.

Oh! We practice dharma because nature constantly
Bombards us with its message, like Helen
With her breasts bared standing clear in our view
Only we fail to notice. Such a beautiful sight.
We practice dharma because of those moments
Where compassion comes welling up inside our chests
Like warm honey, or freshly brewed coffee in the crisp
Morning air of Abiquiu. In both the best and the worst moments,
Which both ultimately are without self-identity,
Dharma is there,
Shining the light of Ultimate Truth,
Supreme comfort,
And draping the feeling of a flowery meadow
Under the blue summer sky
Onto our hardened skins
At any time.