Mind, No Good Maid

My heart like an open palm is —no fist, No secret whatso there's that I should hide, I've said what I know leaving naught the least, But have ye grasped its height and heft so wide? Clouds might drain out all water in their hold, A pot if not placed prime shall scarce get filled, So seems the subtle wisdom told, retold, It's not enough— the pot's bulk and huge build. Whoso ‘tis, if rightly inclined receives; A fresh water stream flows in from a hill, He, a parched throat must partake what it gives, This is how sense strikes to keen ears of will. There are few things that in words can be said— Voice of soul's yon, and mind is no good maid. _____________________________________________ Gautam Buddha and his disciple Anand were walking through a quiet wood whose solitude and silence prompted Anand to ask a question that for a long time was struggling to find expression: You have been discoursing virtually non-stop on many occult subjects, and answering to our queries. I want to know if you have said all that you have to say. Have you come across people who really understand what you say? This poem imagines what Buddha might have said. _____________________________________________ Sonnets | 08.06.13 |