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ZEN MASTERS GUIDE TO A RADIANT NEW YOU
My I AM Poem
I am a human dancing through the electric chaos of mind.
I am also One with all Life, with nature and the organic flow.
Every oak knows how to shed its leaves in the fall
And grow them back in the spring.
The robin knows what songs to sing.
Tulips produce the perfect colors every spring.
The sun shines.
The rain comes down.
Nature sustains itself in unique perfection.
The tree doesn’t bring in another tree to shed leaves for it.
The robin doesn’t need a stand-in singer.
The tulips don’t need to be painted.
The sun and rain don’t need a turn on, turn off switch.
Nature self creates and self edits. The organic flow.
I am a creative writer. I am the giant oak and the tiny robin.
I can shake the leaves of my own tree.
Or change the tune of my own song.
I’m free to write about the leaves, the colors,
The music, sky and sunshine,
The electric chaos and the organic flow, however I choose.
How dare anyone attempt to judge my creation?
My Self-Expression?
Or in any way block the flowing brilliance
Of nature’s own unique perfection?
We are, I am here to be the glorious Me without interference:
To use my voice, my own style of expression, without bondage.
Would the wind hinder flowing words from soul to paper?
Block the very unique expression of an oak or robin, or me?
I certainly don’t mind your unique dance. If it’s sincere.
I self-proclaim my right to write about floating . . .
Singing, flying, drifting, evoluting, making my way . . .
Through the illusions of chaos, to the reality of enlightenment.
As I am willed to do.
I feel alive, purposeful, fulfilled, by expressing, offering,
Pathways to personal self-realized transformation.
Unshackled by rules sabotaging creative expression.
I am by natural order, a creative Fool.
A man who continues writing long after walking off the cliff.
While out of my mind, I walk on air.
With no cares about who cares.
I admire all writers who break the rules.
Arundhati Roy, who wrote “The God of Small Things,”
Didn’t obey the writing rules. She wrote:
Yellow.
Like a Bombay taxi.
Pungent.
Wet.
Mustard stained white muslin.
Like her, let’s stain the sheets of illusion with drops of turmeric.
Color the bland. Strike up the band. Release the monkey.
Paint pictures of incomplete sentences. Make up worlds.
Let the robin of your soul sing in harmony.
The oak leaves of your imagination pile up in disarray.
The morning sun shines into the dark cave.
The afternoon the rain falls on all that’s parched.
The evening flowers bloom even without light.
Before tucking themselves away in midnight slumber.
Allow me to share my Oracle Cards without preconception or restraint
This is my gift
