By Dillard K. Henderson, QH’s Poet Laureate

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Sonnet Number Fifty
 
All in one flowing moment free from time,
I sat upon a mighty mountainside
Beneath great metal booming wind-blown chimes
Above Zen terraced gardens with my guide.
I saw below, beyond the knoll and stream, 
Another mountain breath and undulate.
Awaking slowly from delusion’s dream,
I entered then a much more mindful state.
Then beauty’s beings, radiant as suns,
Each sang her sacred spirit song to me.
The spirit world and this one too were one.
The moon arose, and I began to see.
I heard all music, then, in but one chime
And knew forever, then, in Earthly time.
 

John F. Kennedy Turns 100 Today.

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John F. Kennedy Turns 100 Today.

Sabian Earth

It is hard to imagine John Kennedy as an old man, a man at his 100th birthday, because he was such a vigorous, engaging man, when we knew him and as we see him and his family in the old photographs.   What I want to do in this post  is to look at some of the astrological indicators that perhaps reveal the nature of the sustained high regard that he has in the hearts and minds of people in America and around the world.   There are probably three Presidents that rate “myth figure” status.  I think most people will agree that  our “founding father”, George Washington is number one; the second would be Abraham Lincoln and the third I think should be John Kennedy.  He does not have the “gravitas” of his two predecessors, but he had “something extra” that caught our imaginations, indeed, his brief occupation of…

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Lost in Zen

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Lost in Zen

Born like a dream

in this dream of a world,

How easy in mind I am,

I who will fade away

like the morning dew. — Zen poem

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Born like a dream

Says the poet, 

This dream of a world.

Ah, but 

Even Issa,

troubador of liberation,

wept when 

his child died,

his little girl.

This world may be a dewdrop, 

he said,

This world–

 and yet….and yet…
Keenest of Zen poems and
the most awakened.

Don’t believe that Zen monks

in their mountain abodes

Did not weep,  were not lonely.

Even Satori may not bring peace

from the grasp for 

child- warmth,

From heart loss of the smile

That lit the mornings?

We are not awakened who do not love.
Even those who see Being

Illusory, transient, 

reach for the  sudden reflection on the water

of the  vanished image,

May listen, heart beating for the absent one,

To the calling of night birds

Under stars and pines

in the hut on the hillside.
…Deep Autumn,

How does my neighbor live,

I wonder?

How happy to drink

wine with a visitor,

If only in memory.

Alone with the rocks

And tathata, oneness,

We still hope to see  a

human form on the hillside.

…As I gathered firewood

You came to visit!

Your sandals stirred the dust on the floor,

But I was not here.

…Don’t worry, Spiders,

I keep house casually–

you are my companions

among the jagged granite,

the ever more windblown hemlocks.
Even a Zen master

May long to see Buddha

On the road… to kill him?

Look first in his eyes to

see your true nature,

Just 

As the gray mouse

Appears  and whisks away

Behind these thin pine walls.

The human eye,

Better to look into than to

Gaze upon God!

Said  Melville,

The master of destruction,

Shiva Nataraja who

Dances away the world!

Blake,  thought, 

eternal seer,

whispers:

Sorrow is not fit for immortals

And is useless to anyone.

Loss:

No loss.
The forest stirs in  soft wind,

Rain patters the hut roof

And I sleep, again in peace

With transitory being.

I have washed my bowl.

After the Zen poets, especially Issa.

–Ladybelle Fiske
(Isabella Fiske McFarlin)

March 1 2017

Pisces…

The Battle of “The Fountainhead”

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A chapter from my unfinished memoir.

http://blogcritics.org/the-battle-of-the-fountainhead/#disqus_thread
Quarry Hill, too, is waking to a new morning. Young people are becoming interested in being involved with it, regenerating it. This year we celebrate out 70th anniversary. We hope to see it go on long into the future and be filled with the creative joy of a new morning.

“Morning has Broken” was one of Barbara’s  favorite songs, by Cat Stevens and Eleanor Farjeon.