That Sort of Freedom


My first attempt at Haibun. 

The commuter train’s cars heave along dilapidated rust covered tracks. They wrangle past summer cottages, bungalows and the soot covered buildings of Poughkeepsie, to end their journey in a final sway of creaking springs and tortured steel, at Grand Central Station.

From my apartment it’s a short walk—close enough to afford a private view just outside the grounds of the retreats cropped along the Hudson—to touch the banks of that other river, the iron river—its flow caressing the heart of this huge land, lining it with the silver steel of a new adventure waiting just down the track.

I’ve walked those rails. I’d sit and meditate, or smoke, or just sing out-loud to myself, making up songs that I imagined could one day become part of the canon of American songs. Or, not. Either way, it didn’t matter. What I liked was the way the sun, warm on my back, reflected off the shiny rails, shimmering, as I tried to match my steps to the awkward spacing of the railroad ties.

The crunch of the granite stones under my feet, the heat rising off the rust and gravel between the tracks gave me a good feeling, as if stepping on the iron of those rails somehow could put me in touch with another existence, a reality detached from this world’s assault on the Stream of consciousness. Lost in the ozone, simplicit, without a care; a wandering will o’ the wisp dharma bum, content with the euphoric splendor of a Saturday afternoon all lazy-like and sunlit, replete with a breeze from the river swirling the leaves of the trees in a happy dance, I quietly contemplated the empty completeness of the earth and its Spirit, the life that flows in the leaves and dark dirt and pine needles underfoot; frogs whomping, breathing their own life into the Cosmic eternity of my being. Walking on these rails has always made me feel that way.

the simplicit fool
knocks sprockets with the universe
calls it freedom

an American Haiku

I’ve updated my About page and my concept as a Poet & Writer. Take a look.

Pablo Cuzco

Satori

http://theflickerees.deviantart.com/art/The-Playground-called-Life-210657370

the playground called life by theflickerees


Do not question why we are here,
only answer it.

i

time
shares
all wisdom
(every secret)
unlocked will open
the most stubborn door

nothing is fast
in real-time

ii

we admire
Renoir’s opulence
Van Gogh’s pain
taste eternity
in their work

artists
express their lives
so we recognize ours

iii

a wind blew
and made a whisper
the house woke up to rest
the sun shone from the horizon
clouds formed
hushed

iv

you fear strange words
will escape your lips
so you quit talking

do not question
an inner motive
only to find it lacking

let the milk of life touch you
for it will only curdle into ash Continue reading

A Moment in Satori

snow and the city by duophonix


standing on the corner of Lincoln Avenue
near the rush hour train station

watching pedestrians
on a winter’s afternoon
the gossamer of snowflakes
creates a vignette

big rubber tired taxis
round the curb
let off passengers

rush into the drugstore
for newspapers
cigars

throw candy wrappers
on the sidewalk
in the swirling snow

… a moment in satori

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