Melt Like Butter

Butter on its own
Isn’t much to write home about,
But melted in the middle
Of a croissant, on a
Crescent-shaped plate,
At a hotel morning room
In the early fabled light
Only found in Istanbul,
Is transcendental.

And now I’m writing home,
Meditation on its own
Won’t fill letters from heaven,
But meditation on a lotus
In the eye of the dharma elevates
The breath and the floating moment
Into something translucent
As I meditate, alone,
On a parcel of butter.

Trappings

Essence of survival’s seed
Is only ever as vital to me
As happiness aligned between
The nature and the need.

Wealthy neighbours trappings
My role could never afford,
Grow your golden shiny wrappings,
I’m happier being poor.

There’s nothing fine to me in fame,
All people I’ll not meet;
Filling thoughts, a foreign name,
For rhymes which float and fleet.

I turned my ego inside out,
Ego flogged my soul impure;
It thrashed in nets, and lunged about,
May meditation some day cure.