Accept everything just the way it is.

Do not seek pleasure for its own sake.

Do not, under any circumstances, depend on a partial feeling.

Think lightly of yourself and deeply of the world.

Be detached from desire your whole life long.

Do not regret what you have done.

Never be jealous.

Never let yourself be saddened by a separation.

Resentment and complaint are appropriate neither for oneself nor others.

Do not let yourself be guided by the feeling of lust or love.

In all things have no preferences.

Be indifferent to where you live.

Do not pursue the taste of good food.

Do not hold on to possessions you no longer need.

Do not act following customary beliefs.

Do not collect weapons or practice with weapons beyond what is useful.

Do not fear death.

Do not seek to possess either goods or fiefs for your old age.

Respect Buddha and the gods without counting on their help.

You may abandon your own body but you must preserve your honour.

Never stray from the Way.

ref http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dokk%C5%8Dd%C5%8D

Ninety-Nine  Percent

We’re so much less than we were ever born to be
It seems you see
                          this is a world set up to serve the tiniest Minority

A common political diffusion, focused on fixed financial profusion, aimed at mass confusion, promoting a mechanistic mentality
That does its best to box us in, set us up, and rob us of our Humanity

Such HARD choices , made before most of us even take a breath

A “matter of fact” world made up of mean compromise and shoddy pretence

A salesman’s paradise without dimension, a staged scene, a painted over prop produced to push a lie:
“Work hard, head down , just like Us –  you to can Rise
Or accept your lot, turn on your TV -set, relax and let it happen, You were born to serve”  

Our fruits, our ken, our hardest won rewards (tell of something more)
Our Poetry, our Literature, our Songs, sing of something else

But it seems they’re all for the dogs?

Even science
Subtle complexity of mind, independent thinking
Chained
Shorn of beauty, laid bare, cold and unadorned
Unloved servant of the flesh
Stripped and strapped and pressed into rude service  
When with it we should soar
To find new vista’s, new horizons, new dimensions
The heavens as our gateway, inspiration as our door

But no, it seems we are not set on seeking more
Our freedoms are nothing but a corporate invention, our lives spent marking time in service of a pipe-dream, our best minds bent on making:
                                                                     Fixed, fee, derivative, credit, swaps

And Yet
They call Us mad, for seeking something else?
They say, there is no other way
Things are as they are
                                   and that’s how they’ll stay
                                                           and so we’re forced to “Occupy”

They do not fear us yet, they do not hear us yet
but they will, for we are waking
We are the ninety nine percent

Mankind at play

Some words I’d like to say
About the things we do instead, about the games we play:
 
It’s not just diversion, it’s distraction that we seek
We want to hide from the cold, hard, facts because we’re weak

It’s joy and escapism to flee the world we build
Because it’s hard to face the harsh realities unfurled

But we’ll take the joy, the sparkling moments that we find
The happiness between cracks, the pleasures of the mind

And in this brief interlude, oasis of the heart
Something new and green can grow, enough to make a start

And taking this I’m hoping
That one day soon we’ll find
The courage to forget we’re working and learn to savour all mankind

*Soft Light*

Seize the chance while your eyes are still good to see it

The soft-light that autumn brings

Soft without blurring 

The clear edged golden, green, brown leaves that twinkle with the breeze.

 

Leave your busy day and borrow some moments for yourself

To store up memories for later

When though you have the time, your eyes won't work so well

Courtesy of PICCSY http://piccsy.com/2011/04/einstein-tianohms/

in full

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard – Thomas Gray

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,

The lowing herd wind slowly o’er the lea

The plowman homeward plods his weary way,

And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimm’ring landscape on the sight,

And all the air a solemn stillness holds,

Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight,

And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds;

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow’r

The moping owl does to the moon complain

Of such, as wand’ring near her secret bow’r,

Molest her ancient solitary reign.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade,

Where heaves the turf in many a mould’ring heap,

Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,

The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing Morn,

The swallow twitt’ring from the straw-built shed,

The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,

No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,

Or busy housewife ply her evening care:

No children run to lisp their sire’s return,

Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,

Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

How jocund did they drive their team afield!

How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,

Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;

Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile

The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of pow’r,

And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave,

Awaits alike th’ inevitable hour.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault,

If Mem’ry o’er their tomb no trophies raise,

Where thro’ the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault

The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?

Can Honour’s voice provoke the silent dust,

Or Flatt’ry soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid

Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire;

Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway’d,

Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre.

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample page

Rich with the spoils of time did ne’er unroll;

Chill Penury repress’d their noble rage,

And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene,

The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear:

Full many a flow’r is born to blush unseen,

And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast

The little tyrant of his fields withstood;

Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,

Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.

Th’ applause of list’ning senates to command,

The threats of pain and ruin to despise,

To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land,

And read their hist’ry in a nation’s eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscrib’d alone

Their growing virtues, but their crimes confin’d;

Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne,

And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,

To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,

Or heap the shrine of Luxury and Pride

With incense kindled at the Muse’s flame.

Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife,

Their sober wishes never learn’d to stray;

Along the cool sequester’d vale of life

They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet ev’n these bones from insult to protect,

Some frail memorial still erected nigh,

With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d,

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th’ unletter’d muse,

The place of fame and elegy supply:

And many a holy text around she strews,

That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who to dumb Forgetfulness a prey,

This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d,

Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,

Nor cast one longing, ling’ring look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,

Some pious drops the closing eye requires;

Ev’n from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,

Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who mindful of th’ unhonour’d Dead

Dost in these lines their artless tale relate;

Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard

If chance, by lonely contemplation led,

Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,

“Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn

Brushing with hasty steps the dews away

To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

“There at the foot of yonder nodding beech

That wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,

His listless length at noontide would he stretch,

And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

“Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,

Mutt’ring his wayward fancies he would rove,

Now drooping, woeful wan, like one forlorn,

Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love.

“One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill,

Along the heath and near his fav’rite tree;

Another came; nor yet beside the rill,

Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

“The next with dirges due in sad array

Slow thro’ the church-way path we saw him borne.

Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay,

Grav’d on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.”1

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth

A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown.

Fair Science frown’d not on his humble birth,

And Melancholy mark’d him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere,

Heav’n did a recompense as largely send:

He gave to Mis’ry all he had, a tear,

He gain’d from Heav’n (’twas all he wish’d) a friend.

1 There scatter’d oft, the earliest of the year,

By hands unseen, are show’rs of violets found;

The redbreast loves to build and warble there,

And little footsteps lightly print the ground.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,

Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,

(There they alike in trembling hope repose)

The bosom of his Father and his God.

  . 

I am, O Anxious One. Don't you hear my voice

surging forth with all my earthly feelings?

They yearn so high, that they have sprouted wings

and whitely fly in circles round your face.

My soul, dressed in silence, rises up

and stands alone before you: can't you see?

don't you know that my prayer is growing ripe

upon your vision as upon a tree?

If you are the dreamer, I am what you dream.

But when you want to wake, I am your wish,

and I grow strong with all magnificence

and turn myself into a star's vast silence

above the strange and distant city, Time.