by David Budbill

     Zen monks like it quiet.
    Kuang-shan

Lao Tzu said, Beautiful words are not true.
True words are not beautiful.  I think
what Lao Tzu really meant to say was,
No words are best.

Po Chü-i wrote ten thousand poems
and every day cursed his poetry karma
as he sought The Silence of The Way.

Poor Po Chü-i, every day, brushing out
another poem and swearing at himself
for doing it.

by David Budbill

Poor Po Chü-i cursing
his poetry karma
while he brushes out
another poem.

He, the Taoist devotee,
disciple of silence,
seeking always
the wordless life,

yet compelled always
to write
another and another
poem.

Who we are and who
we want to be
are so seldom
the same.

by David Budbill

Po Chü-i believed in idleness —
we might call it “staring at the wall” —

that waiting, listening for the words
of the poem to come to us,

voice of the muse, who comes
floating to us from the other side,

but only if we have that openness
to those voices only heard when we

are idle, doing nothing, only
listening.

by Zara Raab

In one corner, a chair;
near the door, another,
cover in mottled blue,
twin beds like box cars
jutting into the room,
beds crisply made, prim as
matrons, lit by a small
dim lamp at the headboard.
Opposite beds, a dresser,
a Bible in the drawer,
glass of mottled silver,
in back, toilet, shower,
sink, another mirror,
nothing reflected there.
Carpet of mottled rose,
a swirling weave, yawning
to short, dark-paneled walls,
a key on the bureau —
no, two keys, hers and yours,
you, studying the mirror.
In it a woman lies
on the box car bed, heels
dangling; she’s getting
ready for the next move.
Don’t suppose this is home.
Think of it as a scene
from a film.  When the big
screen goes dark, that’s your cue
to get up and go out.