A Celtic Lyric

And when I dream,
And the soft light of the hills comes through,
I dream—of you.
And in the night
The lilt of fairy guitars lulls me to sleep,
And the songs of fairy maidens turns me to tears,
And the love light
From the eyes of brighter beings tempts me so
That I would go
And drown those tears,
No longer weep,
But join the merry throng of the fair Sidhe (She),
And forget thee.

But a deep wrankling in the heart
Causes me to start,
And in a false daybreak
I seem to wake,
And the mist of false emotions blinds my path;
And in my wrath
I feel my footsteps falter in the fen;
I pause—and then
I hear the mocking laughter of the loved-me-not,
Bewitching maidens with icy hearts of clay.
I rush away….
And in the dream
I sometimes seem
To catch a glimpse of purer, higher love,
Far up above,
Which stirs my hopes anew.
And then
I dream—of you.

Cipango’s Doom

1.
When tyranny unmasks its ghoulish face,
And Death his ungloved bloody hand reveals,
Where rapine crushes man beneath his heals (sic.),
And crime unchallenged, usurps law’s true place;
Dispensing woe these despot arms move on,
As no force seems to check the threatening tide,
Yet China, having Justice on her side,
Will fight until these demon foes have gone.

An end must come to all these upstart moves,
And governments must strive to secure peace.
This indefensible attack only proves
Man’s faith in force; how then can warfare cease?
For all are guilty who demur; this hour
Decides the case twixt righteousness and power.

2.
Weep not in vain that murder hold the rein
And peaceful folk are slaughtered in the street;
This time Yamato’s spawn shall taste defeat,
And China triumph; nor shall appear again
These ravages that doom the weaker nation.
A mightier hand shall rise; the earth shall shake
The walls of Nippon in colossal quake,
And thus avenge this threat to civilization.

For who can stem the tide of Karma’s hand,
Escape the punishment for evil deed?
When ocean’s holocaust shall sweep the land,
These renegades of Buddha then shall heed
Too late, perhaps, the damage they have wrought,
Bating, Samsara’s net, themselves are caught.

Clouds

Cirrus
Sheep are grazing in sky’s pastures;
They flee from a troupe of ravenous wolves,
And are rescued
When the shepherd of the heavens
Surrounds them with the cloak of invisibility.

Cumulus
Cinematogravures screened upon earth’s ceiling,
Frothy jinn who display bravado when it’s calm,
But flee like slinking cowards before the storm.

Nimbus
Hearts melted at the sight of parched earth,
In the Fall—
Tears of sorrow.
Hearts delighted at the Primer’s smile,
In the Spring—
Tears of joy.

Stratus
Soldiers are marching,
Passing in review.
Off to war,
In the battle of the elements
They fall without a murmur,
Spirits of self-sacrifice.

Thunder Clouds
Mountains of vanity,
Bosoms puffed with self-conceit,
Howling with rage when they are discovered
And the bubble is burst.

God Calls

God calls.
The bells ring in the temple;
The perfume rises from the aloes;
The sage in meditation sits.
Om! Tat! Sat!
The nothingness of the now;
The Everythingness of Eternity.
God calls.

God calls.
The muezzin’s voice from minaret tower cries:
“Come to prayer, come to prayer, come to prayer.”
A million Moslems then stretch out their prayer rugs,
A million and a myriad million more.
“There is no God but God,
To this I now bear witness,
There is no God but God;
Mohammed is His Prophet; come to prayer.”
God calls.

God calls.
On Friday eve the Jew prepares himself,
Walks to his synagogue and prays,
Takes down the Torah scroll and reads.
Reads what his forefathers read:
“Hear O Israel! The Lord our God, the Lord is One!”
“And His Name is One.”
This is the Law and the prophets.
God calls.

God calls.
The stations slowly passing one by one.
She tells her beads and tells them o’er and o’er.
Ave Maria! Gratia plena!
Ora! Ora pro nobis!
Paternoster qui est in caelis,
Sanctificetur tuo nomen—
Sanctificetur! Sanctificetur!
God calls.

God calls.
The branches rustle lightly in the breeze,
Above the music of pagoda’s bells.
His humble repeat finished ere ‘tis noon,
The bhikshu tells the children of the Buddha,
They listen, one voice speaks in the forest,

Then all is silent, save the breeze …
There slowly comes that feeling of great peace.
Shanti! … Shanti! … Shanti! …
God calls.

God calls.
The men from every race have come together,
From every land, from every sect or cult.
They gather at the temple for their worship.
Love ye, every man his neighbor;
Be ye brethren, ye who are my brothers.
Worship Him, the Father of us all;
Worship Him, in Love and Faith and Joy;
Worship Him in Silence …
God calls.

Heart and Mind                    3/30/50

Minds express in words,
Hearts indicate by surds,
But in the heart you’ll find
What is not in mind.

Mind is always tolling,
Mind wants everything,
Hearts are all compelling
And love to sing.

Minds are full of questions,
Minds make many claims,
Hearts make no suggestions,
Nor limit things by names.

Mind is an enigma,
Mind delights in speech,
Heart knows no bad stigma,
Finds nothing out of reach.

Mind has its own notions,
Yet it is often caught
In the web of its emotions,
Self-inflicted, self-brought.

Heart is always willing,
Answers with a “yes”
Finds it own fulfilling
In love’s calm caress.

Mind needs an introduction
And depends on memory,
Heart draws heart by suction
And revels in ecstasy.

Mind will store up knowledge,
And logic is its tool,
Heart is love’s own college,
Heart is mercy’s school.

Mind must fit occasion,
Or etiquette’s requirements.
Heart avoids evasion,
And prefers retirement.

Mind seeks intellection
And shuns stupidity,
While heart’s free direction
Is from cupidity.

Mind says love needs defining
Though love is beyond its call
Heart says love needs refining,
Though love is it’s all in all.

Mind has a strong ambition,
Mind strains every nerve
Heart has calm intuition,
And graciously will serve.

Mind longs for serenity,
Mind may seek romance.
Heart leaps to infinity
In its endless dance.

He Who Desires to Write a Sutra

He who desires to write a sutra, let him follow the way of the gods,
Who inspire man with poetry and all the artistic faculties;
But he who is freed from desire, or would be free,
Let him become a Bodhisattva with tranquil heart,
And all the sutras in the universe will strive to creep into his body,
Hiding behind his tongue and in his ears and eyes,
Like fairy cohorts slipping into the recesses of flowers.

He who desires to write a sutra, let him cultivate literary taste,
And study all the works of man and muni and deva as of yore;
But he who is freed from desire, or would be free,
Let him become a Bodhisattva dwelling in serenity,
And all the uncultivated styles will seek refuge in his personality,
All the words unspoken and thoughts unthought will seek refuge in him,
Even as the devotee seeks refuge in the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha.

He who desires to write a sutra, let him refine his nature,
And cultivate all the niceties of art and humanity;
But he who is freed from desire, or would be free,
Let him become a Bodhisattva fully emancipated,
And new forms of art will spring from his bosom like the branches of a tree,
And the blessings of Sukhavati will seek to incarnate in his flesh,
Even as the birds seek to nest in the branches of a tree.

He who desires to write a sutra, let him long practice his skill,
And follow the canons of learning until they are mastered;
But he who is freed from desires or would be free,
Let him become a Dhyani-Bodhisattva in supreme meditation,
Whose canons will consist of his breath and his heart-beat,
Who will seek nothing and be sought by all the universe,
Until, like a Buddha, all things animate and inanimate will serve him.

Iris

Softly on the mountain side
Purpureal pantomimists perform their cadences,
Guided by the wind’s fluted song.

Lovely on the mountain side
As Nature’s collection
Of flags and banners
Which float so gracefully in the breeze.

Japanese beauties in silken kimonos pass before us,
Displaying the choistest Oriental costumes.

Spanish maidens in their motley shawls
Are frolicking on the veranda,
Their gay laughter echoing in the court.

Beautiful flower maidens
With delicately tattooed bosoms
And enticing lips
That lore the bedouins of the air.

Irises

Softly on the mountain side,
Purpureal pantomimists perform their cadences,
Guided by the white wind’s fluted song.

Lovely on the mountainside,
Is Nature’s gallery of Art,
With its waving banners floating in the breeze.

Japanese beauties stand arrayed in bright kimonos,
Displaying the choisest Oriental costumes
Of all ages.

Spanish maidens in their motley shawls
Sway slowly in a light, exotic dance.

Gardens enriched with superb fluorescence,
Blossoms enchanting with their iridescence,
Delicately tattooed bosoms that lure,
And lips that entice the bedouins of the air.

I Saw God

I saw God laughing at me through the eyes of a babe,
Smiling with its lips,
And waving its little hands.

I saw God dancing with the young maids on the seashore,
To the rhythmical music of the happy seawaves.

I saw God loving God
When youth and maid strolled down the wayside lane,
Oblivious of the Universe,
And lost in ecstasy.

I saw God helping God
When man met man preparing for a mighty venture:
To conquer nature,
Or to rend the bonds of slavery.

I saw God weeping
On a crudely fashioned gallows,
One Friday eve,
In Judea,
Long ago.

I saw God when the heart was opened,
And every veil that hinders soul’s eyes torn away,
And one was I with Creator and with creature,
And knew that Lover, Loving and Beloved were identical.

Mary Siegrist

A flower from Heaven.
A breath of pure air
Wafted amber pollen from Sukhavati’s fields
To the lips of a praying rose.
The rose conceived,
And when Spring’s wand awakened slumbering Earth,
Her eyes beheld this strangely blooded foundling.

Half-memoried:
Her Sire’s invigorating élan
Scents her petals with its transcendent fragrance,
But Mother’s earth-roots hold her to the ground;
Flower who would hold her head above,
To fly away and frolic with the Upsaras,
Restrained in spite of self.

O ye knight-errant bees and butterflies!
Come whisper in soft language to yon blossom
Of the suffering souls scattered over the world,
Of the drooping hearts, the saddened bosoms,
The trampled slaves of man-made despotisms,
Knowing not how to loose these ensnaring nets;
Joyless, sunless, hopeless, in despondency.
Such she-flowers by a single full-fledged nod
Can save them from their thought entangled doom.

Flower of Earth and Heaven,
Perchance for some such mission wert thou born,
To bring some substance from the encircling spheres
To lead the caravans anon.
So live,
And having lived, thou shalt return again,
A faultless daughter of joy and love and truth.

Muir Woods at Thanksgiving

Amber and gold, amber and gold—
The soft wind is bringing
New carpets for old.
Birds no longer singing,
But southward go winging
As the weather turns cold.
See how Nature weaves
Strange patterns in leaves
Of amber and gold,
And scarletine tints,
Suggesting imprints
Of tales never told.
Summer has gone;
Now Silence reigns on
In valleys deep wooded,
Untrod and secluded.
Strange memories
Lurk in these trees
That lull one to sleep,
Forbearing to weep—
What fantastic moods
Each fall, in Muir Woods!