By Eric Nicholson
Sometimes there's treasure to keep but you have to dive deep. There's nothing to lose except the mask they gave you. Retreat to find your own Seat. Today you can choose your own journey and track where the lines in your mask crack. Today you can stand on the brink - walk the convoluted road - abandon your heavy load - watch the gaps between self and other shrink. Here, the ego no longer defends - here, suffering ends. Let go of all trouble - each bite of your past tastes bitter - cease biting to make life sweeter! Live a life which is noble.
A Grain of Truth
A Golden Shovel after William Blake
On his death bed my uncle managed to speak and help a hundred neighbours to see a thousand golden buddhas in a mustard seed. A miraculous World shimmered and dazzled in an inconceivable liberation. It wasn't a mere miracle: it had more than a Grain of truth in it. A generous demonstration of the Way and a line drawn in the Sand. My grandma emptied her house and stored all her furniture in a tree, rent-free. A heavy tree touching Heaven. She told me our minds too were in a state of ultimate emptiness but a long arduous struggle with Wild beasts is the price if we wish to Flower. I remember my grandpa would Hold me and I'd climb towards Infinity while listening to tales of giants and goddesses in rivers, lakes and mountains. Miraculously the palaces, princes, ogres and luxurious palm trees appeared on grandpa's head. I'd see scents of magnolia, sandalwood and jasmine; he'd say 'Your buddha-realm is in your own hand.' I knew my aunt was an ordinary buddha and that she cultivated lotus flowers in Eternity. When she chanted, flagrant flowers fell in my bedroom; then she'd appear as an elephant to show me the way each hour.
The Pan Book of Horror Stories
foul deeds indeed the horror in the lonely farmhouse an eye for an eye a severed hand raised a monster on the cover raising a coffin lid showing only hairy hands and razor teeth my father raising more than an eyebrow swearing an oath and later bruising words such as loathsome misshapen obscene monstrous sprinkled throughout punchy prose
Eric Nicholson is a retired art teacher and prize-winning poet who resides in the NE of England.
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