Goodness Depends on You to Make It Great

Where are the holy ones?
Who can behold the breadth of heaven,
measure the number of its stars,
and find where this universe rests?

Let there be a firmament of waters—
the rivers raise their voices,
their thunders greater than oceans,
and water overflows everywhere.

Where does your garden grow?
The angels call them rainbows,
a dragon ascends, clouds rise,
and under heaven— good fortune.

Tell me the secrets that you know—
the earth's distance from the sun,
Leonardo's golden section, Parthenon,
Pyramids of Giza and Stonehenge.

The wondrous ascending descending
wandering, yearning, exploring
the mystery of the Ineffable—
why the stars and winds are born?

Wisdom reveals joyous eternities,
the Gods preserve us with blessings—
flowers satiated with morning dew,
ambrosia and rosy nectar.

The wise without desires, full of bliss
content resting in the inner self
realizing enlightened emptiness
like birds soaring without a trace.

Can virtue and goodness be taught?
Can the human soul be attuned?
Keep company with the sages,
your love will come to help you.

Love is a gift, wisdom its offspring.
Perform a dance, make some bows,
hold goodness firmly within you—
It depends on you to make it great.

Contemplation— the yogi's food,
not by your will but by Grace—
artha, kama, dharma, moksha
celestial man— tranquil & peaceful.

The night covered with darkness,
the day has dawned for the journey—
fifty years or fifty lifetimes
you'll find the center of stillness

in vertical mind intersecting
horizontal time— the now-moment
absence of presence-and-absence
delusions gone— no minds, no forms

from skin to bone to marrow
ponder on the void and be joyous
that you're no longer on earth but
swifter than lightning returning home

to some great marvelous adventure
music of such sweet delight
sweet love dwelling in Eve's apple
sprout of the tree— spirit of life.

The first blossoms of the year
from burweeds butterflies are born
the air sublime, our souls all light
a beautiful, bounteous, blue day!

a sigh, a weep, an arrow of song
the new is the true— so kiss me
a kiss that would linger long
O blossoming tree— I'll dance & sing

    — Peter Y. Chou
         Mountain View, 6-1-2004

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© Peter Y. Chou,
P.O. Box 390707, Mountain View, CA 94039
email: (6-1-2004)