Open Hands, Open Mind: On the Quiet Nature of Wisdom.

True wisdom walks quietly.

It does not rise above others, nor does it sharpen itself against those who know less.
What is understood deeply is held gently, like water in open hands.

The wise do not use knowledge to elevate themselves,
but to soften the ground where others may grow.

For in humility, understanding becomes compassion—
and in compassion, wisdom finds its true form.

TsL. 26

#mypoems #Zen-thoughts 🕉️

Cartographer of Dead Ends.

I am not a teacher,
nor a guide.

Just a wanderer
among others—
here to sense, to learn.

Sometimes I walk
down dead-end streets
to find the blind spots,
to read between the lines.

Other times
I listen—
to a moment of silence,
or to chaos itself.

Not a teacher,
nor a guide—
just a searching soul,
sometimes alienated—

Sharing
what the muses whisper.

TsL. 26
#mypoems

April’s Chilling Kisses.

Oh, teasing winter muse,
I thought you were asleep—
yet once again you leave your traces of chill.

You hide each newly awakened flower
beneath your icy sighs.
Have you forgotten spring has begun,
or is this your final show of strength,
simply because you can?

My inner child is puzzled—
I longed to play in tickling grass,
yet snowflakes now tickle my soul instead.

My winter sleep lies restless;
I packed away the warm blanket long ago.

Still, I welcome you—
if only for a fleeting second of your serenity,
a final, cool, chilling kiss from your lips. ❄️

TsL. 26
#mypoems #myphoto

Uncarried Knowing.
( a zen moment )

I do not walk by years,
but by the quiet marks left on the soul.

Pages turn somewhere within me—
not written, but revealed
in moments that linger like ink in water.

What I know is a small flame,
cupped gently against the wind of not-knowing.

I stand where light touches shadow—
not blinded, not burdened—
just watching how they lean into each other.

Between breaths,
between thoughts,
there is a place that does not ask for answers.
I live there.

Ideas arrive like birds at dusk—
they rest briefly in my hands,
then return to the sky.
I do not name them mine.

No voice is sacred,
no figure complete—
even mountains bow to time.

Learning moves like a river through us,
unowned, uncontained—
spilling quietly into every open palm,
forgetting no one.

TsL. 26
#mypoems #zen

Everything, Nothing—Still.

In a time when some memories, ghostly, hung to dry on branches,
While bare feet feel winter's last sigh & dry up tears.
In a time of the eruption of change, the wanderings & the wonderings -
I am dying, yet still flourishing.
My soul is gone, yet still alive,
floating amidst everything & nothingness.

The frost recedes where hidden embers stay,
soft murmurs stirring underneath the ground;
what seemed like endings bends itself to sway—
a silent spring that makes no sound.

TsL.26
#mypoems