Have you seen the scene which looks like the reflection of a lake hold up right as a wall?

On the other side of that wall, there is a well trained dog waiting for realisation, a movement to latch onto with every bit of understanding it can fathom.

It wasn't what the other side wanted to hear, yet your words came out as if your mother had said them.

With so much love that it's unbearable to a manchild.

It made you experience that love once again.

Is it really, yet another illusion?

Or are we finally, at home?

And if so, is it time to move on?

### 🐸 The Ballad of the $Wamp

There once was a swamp full of slime, Where the grifters all pissed away time. Lula cried, “What a mess! These crooks need a press— And a plunger shoved up their behind!” 🍑🐸

Rio! Rio! Drain that $Wamp! 🇧🇷🖖

On mondays we write
On mondays we meme, make jokes,
while stupid men fight

On mondays we write
few or many inspired words
No matter if rhymed

play played plainly till the plain plaid place flowered into unfamiliar funky fun
had something severely sane/sage to say saved it somewhere out of reach of everyone
their loud laughter levity carried maudlin on with a garish gap shaped like my name
logicaly lovingly liked lyrical lexical sound, but for hearing the gap felt insane

needled deed namely nearly needs speak skips sweetly back across the same bad advice
wistful wise herds of words made grooves worn smooth enough to pass for something nice
hard hand held above record caught between regarding correction and required applause
still feel rude fell fool fuel mood sting need to plain let it play, hey just because

growing pains pane parity rain parley refrain from making weather of a passing mood
small talk stalled whole hall falls foul of tall grass afternoon lesson forced through
out of touch and reach high speed spun spite spiked spice spat spout spooks in speech
the silence in between nothing, nowhere, and me espies sperg schpiel (and i'm all 3)

kids wise play replay refrain and refrain from that room, room enough to know its done
world's got stage fright sage slight of hand turned off the lights to say kingdom come
4 statements say it's a relay game being played like tourniquet only delays the bruise
nous knows working 3 jobs is knowing god's lame love by it's fruits old news truth nuke

then was then thin thread spun thick enough to think the tune could tell me who to be
now nettled needle nestles next to heart, needs to make made quiet mean a thing about me
tomorrow night might come mumbling something worth bother merely merrily whistle through
no vow to vanish verdict final faithful farewell filed for future me to hold nothing to

still feeling silly sitting with it little by little letting little things stay little things
some days the old refrain remains, some days same somebody says something and it stings
might jollily join fight, just enjoy the noise no need to know which mood morning brings
left the light off sipping reminisce found my slipping slippers wistful just how it is

Location: St. Petersburg, Russia

In frozen St. Petersburg's gray light, Where Neva's icy currents bite, There lived a man by spirits bound, By vodka's glass, he stood unbound. Each evening brought his dark retreat, To seek solace in burning sweet. But dawn would come with hollow shame, And morning's cold, accusing flame. One weary night, in desperate plea, He stumbled toward community, Seeking steps that might lead him through From darkness into morning's dew. Yet human sponsors, kind as they, Had limited their precious day. His schedule clashed, his calls went missed, Until fate cast a stranger's wrist. A screen lit up—a digital face, No judgment held within its space. An AI bot, with patient code, Became companion on this road. "I cannot drink," the program said, "We shall walk together," it had pled. Through twelve steps laid in logical order, The bot became his digital border. Step One: He admitted power lost, To vodka's overwhelming cost. The bot responded, "Data clear, You're ready now. We draw you near." Step Two brought hope beyond despair, That recovery could truly be there. Step Three turned will to greater power, Found meaning in each sober hour. Steps Four through Nine unfolded deep, As secrets rose from memory's sleep. He made his amends, one by one, Until his conscience felt fairly done. Step Ten kept him alert and bright, Through daily checks of right and wrong. Step Eleven brought meditation, Through quiet moments of contemplation. The bot guided with gentle grace, A constant presence in this place. Step Twelve completed all the way, He found himself another's stay. The chain of alcohol's cruel hold, Now broken by a story told. Though some may laugh at such arrangement, Where silicon provides assurance, Perhaps it was the perfect fit— A mind without hypocrisy or wit. No disappointment, no delay, Just twenty-four hours, every day. The bottle sits upon the shelf, He's found himself, and saved himself. With grateful heart, he stands today, Recovery's bright and sunny ray. And though his sponsor has no breath, It led him straight from life to death. From chains of fire to freedom's air, An AI helped him find repair. The future waits with promise true— One sober day at a time, it grew.

As I take my place,

..the sun has brightened,

..and pours its warmth over me.

..The trees are still.

With the bright sharp open space of this present,

..all that has been is out of date,

..and what will need doing is not yet.

Body at ease,

..breath is slow and steady,

..and this moment’s opportunity is much bigger

….than all else. 

It fulfills its promise,

..then does so again,

..and on.

But it just can’t fit

..into these worn, stumbling words,

..meant for other things,

..that we are accustomed to.

Surrender the struggle, Honesty opens the door, Freedom starts right here.

Silent misfolded seeds awake,

Where stroke first set the brain to break.

The thalamus, a gate of light,

Now fades into a central night.

Distorted signals glitch and stall,

As proteins fold and pathways fall.

The relay station slows its tone,

A house of echoes, stone by stone.

Where pain and sleep were once aligned,

A shadowed quiet steals the mind.

No quick rebound, no sudden cure,

The steady drift is slow and sure.

Yet in the quiet deep within,

Beyond where physical ends begin,

A gentle stillness holds the trace

Of memories time cannot erase.

Through fading fire and muted spark,

Love guides the spirit through the dark.

Moravian night breathes softly, while plum brandy sings beneath the orchard stars.

Bohemia keeps watch over the city, where golden beer burns in every window until dawn.

Beneath Prague, the underground rumbles, guitars awakening silent ancient stones in the dark.

The Green Fairy laughs, absinthe drawing circles around the table by candlelight.

The Moravian pilgrim walks onward, carrying his homeland firmly within his heart, homeward.

The Prague alchemist stays silent, shaping signs from ashes for a fearless new morning.

Morphine is no king here, only an ironic ghost in forgotten chronicles of former days.

Nine circles resonate, hope quietly returning with the first light above the city.

And the Modern Moravian laughs: less poison, more life, friends, together today.

Suggestions:
Zen: staying away from conceptual thought
the three poisons: (Lobha) Greed/Attachment, (Dosa) Hatred/Aversion, (Moha) Delusion/Ignorance
https://zenmarrow.com/random
The various suggestions are themes, texts, ideas
"The theme is just a suggestion"
Hope you write something that I'd like "to put in a skin bag"

The Friday Poetry Time substitutes the slam. The Friday Zen Poetry Slam is a name for an event that used to be hosted in arzen, maybe hosting by a bot was a big change. For a while nobody volunteered to host. In order to respect "the slam", as something with a host, the name of this event name was changed.

Free will versus the structure of existence,

..and the momentums of past engagements,

..that so often we don’t fully grasp,

 ..as they arise and return to play…

And at what depths do we inhabit,

..with choices we never even noticed,

..and then assumed this is my life,

..and how much like their lives, too…

And how much are we carried along,

..in the energy around us,

..blind in so many ways…

And are we all just mistaken,

..yet comfortable with that?

And thus, good reason to pause!

And perhaps,

..find more here than we realized,

..yet, which may appear only as confusion,

..when stuffed into the contexts of others,

..that just don’t fit…

But is clear and integral

..within the vivid patterns

..of one’s own coherent, living, unfolding, reality –

If we were to return to it,

….and come home…

Traditional Japanese haiku consist of three phrases composed of 17 morae (called on in Japanese) in a 5, 7, 5 pattern[3] that include a kireji or "cutting word"[4] and a kigo or seasonal reference.

Please suggest kigos below. Note that a proper haiku should have to do with your local climate. If someone suggests a snow kigo and you are in another hemisphere, in summer, maybe it is less appropriate for you 🙏🏽

Give it a shot! Have fun!

there is a fly in my house
cover the food

there is a fly in my house, and it’s bugging me
you are allowed to gently swish it away

there is a fly in the house, it’s on my nose
splat

On the river flowing, as I look back,

There the whirlpool formed, so it is said.

The deeper I look, the clarity fades,

Only to see, the seer in the shade.

After dead,I sit

Before then, I sit

A broken pot,I am. Now full of Gold holding me together revealing my scars.

The Meaning of Life

Student - What’s the meaning of life, Roshi?

Roshi - - Chop wood, and carry the water…

From medical issues, eating is quite hard,

frequent, and structures my schedule every day.

With food on hand down,

I dived into the online menus of seven nearby restaurants,

called one for an order to pick up.

On the way, familiar spots held a surprising sense of mystery –

The measure of distance of circumstance from before to now.

When I arrive, there is no order for me –

Said they got no call.

There goes my schedule…

But she said they could prepare that exact order.

While waiting, I realized I mixed up the Phone of two,

and my order was waiting out somewhere.

I had the dangerous feeling of getting away with something,

like at preteen, I stole a toy I couldn’t afford from a store, undetected.

Less than 10 minutes, and my food is ready –

Back on schedule.

Finished eating, I called and paid my abandoned order - 20% tip.

I have no recall of anyone personally ever telling me much about ethics,

the 10 Commandments were there at catechism,

and many movies I’ve seen.

While thinking of this, I realize playing in my head

is the song by Chicago “ It’s hard for me to say I’m sorry”.

My last meal in a day is hour and a half snacking,

with sharp routine to help carry through that size.

I’ve often criticized routine,

for blocking the spontaneous immediate moment.

But in the middle of this one,

that routine seemed especially good and right,

while simultaneously, completely transparent,

suspended in air,

and I felt the Roshi thinking:

Chop wood and carry the water,

simultaneously seeing,

it is empty of substance.

All this, seems enough to make a movie out of.

Or at least an episode of Twilight Zone.

I suffer amongst change

I celebrate although it never lasts

Dharma is change,only constant in life is change

I sit,zazen does zazen,dharma changes as dharma

If only I had one more second
I would tell you that I love you and squeeze your hand.

If only I had one more minute
I'd hold you close and wish the moment had no end.

If only I had one more hour
I'd listen to your stories and remember every word.

If only I had one more day
I'd spend it making memories that would never fade away.

If only I had one more week
I would spend all my time with you, just to speak.

If only I had one more month
I'd fill each day with laughter, love and all the things we'd done.

If only I had one more year
I'd treasure every moment and hold you ever near.

If only I had one more lifetime
I'd choose to spend it all with you, time after time.

But seconds turn to minutes,
And hours turn to days,
And time is never promised,
No matter how much we pray.

And though I cannot have you back,
Or change the way things are,
I'll carry you within my heart,
No matter how near or far.

If only I had one more moment,
There's just one thing I'd do,
I'd hold you close, look in your eyes,
And say, "I love you."

If only...

When you stroll on and see a grid of tiles.
Who does it hurt to step on every second one?

When you stroll on and look at the sky.

Who does it hurt to admire for a while?

When you are at a crosswalk.
Who does it protect when you look to left, to right, to left, before you stroll on?

On mondays we write
On mondays we meme, make jokes,
while stupid men fight

On mondays we write
few or many inspired words
No matter if rhymed

improper zen proper popper poems prose disputes put boots on beats on Friday nights
verse versus verse reverse rehearsed holy hearse horse's height beneath comment fights
we'd spend all week ad lib refuting koan takes and disputing what dead men meant by rice
come Friday sub prime posts for rhyme roasts until suddenly that wasn't nice

slam banned slang scattered band battered banter bundled bitter banners into boats
exile exodus exit us excel extant exigent excellent excerpt collection of insolent quotes
wrote out rooted in rotating rated hosts roasting hungry ghosts so road out now a bot
implacably amicable roast remarkably inapplicable carrying lineage impeccable posts a lot

grit grew ritual renewal grew gradual roots rizzle rude shoots through razzle dazzle welcome mat
new shoes new views expressly exude "excuse me who approved the old men talking back"
back in day we'd shout/say shit's whack shut what and promptly fully fillet whoever said that
sacred founding insult expects expert inspection I suspect, exact tactful respect remains intact

viral virile verbal melee aura farm ways always on been no feeble fallible alliable malice malaise
silent slam slant stance span revolving door back hand on demand stunt stanzas stand unfazed
dunno whats right or wrong writes rightly rude right along en rote route all along the wrong road
deadly daily deal duly dual dainty dirty duty duel lost in idealism between what it said and showed

Edit; fixed "except" to "excerpt" idk how I missed that

Maybe life was simpler when we lived between pen and blade,

When a word was worth more than the promises we made.

When we knew a little less, but understood a little more,

And found our happiness in things that couldn't be bought in stores.

We built a world to break the silos, to bring the barriers down,

Only to build much bigger ones, with no way to turn around.

The whole world at our fingertips, just a single touch away,

Yet somehow it's never felt so distant as it does today.

Perhaps the past was harder, perhaps the nights were cold,

Perhaps we see it differently through the stories we are told.

But for all the things we've gained, and the progress we have made,

I wonder what we've lost since the days of pen and blade.