Lessons in Form and Emptiness

Every morning I write poetry, or try,
Not any great literary act,
But something to make sense of this world,
Well, that is not exactly it,
More for me just to be observant.

This small dog, who now lays next to me,
We don't really know where she came from,
But she so appreciates our kindness now,
Laying, resting quietly,
In her bed next to my chair.

A refugee seeking safety
And a place to call home,
Really, that is what we all want, isn't it?

I took refuge in the Buddha,
Had to leave my home to return home,
Now my "practice" is beyond form and emptiness,
 That is my home.

I think this little dog knows better than me,
about that!

I am humbled to be her student.


—Bruce Linton

Your Countenance

Today I changed
because you,
like some great
Zen teacher,
you showed no recognition
of me.

There was no
being seen
or taken in.

I found myself
a true refugee.

all that was left
 just the
mist on the mountain


—Bruce Linton

July Poem

Expressing oneself as an image or word
slips like a wet stone squeezed too tightly 

to depend on 1 over 0 cuts Growth with growth 
brewing within sprawling networks of concrete and narcissism

the boilerplate of Life is outside Infinity 
restricts Virginity as caused, conquered, and endured


—Hunter Priniski