Howardism Musings from my Awakening Dementia
My collected thoughts flamed by hubris
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Late autumn rain is a rain of mist
tiger tracks appear in the moss
the west wind doesn't stop all night
by dawn yellow leaves are up to the steps

—Zen poet, Stonehousey

The Day's Shadows

Pondering and sipping tea
    Before the day's shadows
Aroma of dawn, incense and tea.
    A Bach fugue spinning thoughts
Into the heavy atmosphere,
Full of fecundity, potential
For luminous being.

After the day's shadows
    Dance across the ceiling,
Lying on the couch
    Sleeping infant on my chest,
Smelling each deep breath
    And the gurgling summer rain,
Cushions under head compresses thoughts
Listening to tiger tracks in the moss.

What is the point of pondering? What is the point of being if not to be?

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