My Shadow Meets Buddha

— Kim Mosley



There is a man

Whose shadow asks a question.

There is a shadow

Whose song is the echo of a bloom.

Water pools in a stone bowl,

Unperturbed, without aspiration.

A black, three-legged palm of white powder

Has a story to tell.

Before it,

Sits a luminous being, his robes

Rivulets of light, flowing

In consoling arcs

Across his form, and

Down, into river,



Singing what is

And will always, never

Be again.

— Geneve Gil



Shadows just impose their view.
They don’t explain themselves.
I am left to figure out who what
where why each crosses my field
of vision.

These transient tracings may be read
literally, often. Object receiving light 
projects shadow. That’s quite straight
forward. But like walking into an ongoing 
conversation, the source and meaning
may appear oblique, when the light
shifts, the shadow must too.

Or it shifts when someone steps into 
the light, and cast a shadow of their
former self, without needing to be seen, 
except for their shape shifting shadow. 

What I know about shadows is there is nothing
there to know. Anyone who is curious can
flip on a light, and out the shadow goes. 
Goes where? It retreats into figures &
fabrics waiting for its next opportunity to 

—Martha Ward


Buddha’s Shrine

I see you sitting there,
peaceful, serene, knowing,
not knowing.
The flowers, symbols of your faith sitting around your feet.
The candle at your side is silent,
it sheds no light, yet it shines
from the memory of you.
It speaks on your behalf
and stands as a beacon for others to see
the path you are no longer able to walk.

There is a presence around you.
A shadow standing over you,
dark and insubstantial,
but not inconsequential.
It too is silent.
I think I prefer the candle
with its potential to shed light
upon the world
than the shadow who stands in darkness,
devoid of its own potential, its own light.
Perhaps when the candle is lit,
it will dispel all doubt
casting the shadow aside to melt away into the lite,
to become the light
as I’m sure it was meant to be.

Perhaps, when the candle is lit
and illuminates the shadow,
I’ll discover that the face in the darkness
was only mine.

— Paul Causey

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