Hunter Reynolds
Hunter Reynolds |
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| Hunter Reynolds is a professional astrologer, author and dharma poet. His counseling and writing are strongly influenced by Buddhism and the teachings of zen-advaita teacher, Adyashanti. After six years serving as in-house astrologer at Harbin Hot Springs the bulk of his consultations are now done over the phone via his website. |
Merciless Masseuse
Face down,
under a monstrous palm of sky,
mind was born frustrated -
oppressively un-mashed
into the face cradle of time.
Then,
the anonymous elbow -
everyday life -
leaning deep
into the throbbing knot
we call "me,"
un-pinching the blood flow
to the surrounding soft tissue
we call "others."
veering us off
the lonely interstate
between handshakes and humping -
slamming us into a ditch
between the vertebrae
of thought.
Amazing, is it not,
what price the soul will pay
to sit up in a cloud
of molecular hummingbirds
hovering for an instant
in the shape of a body?
Trees in Bikinis
At first,
it must have seemed like
some kind of
avant-garde artistic statement:
this dainty bikini
(our separate sense of self)
wrapped around
the mighty redwood
of pure awareness.
Now, of course, it looks
incongruous and silly,
and anyone
with the slightest hint of aesthetic integrity
has only one purpose:
taking it down.
Yet, as we move a little closer -
actually snap
the synthetic straps
against love's towering ridges -
the intention of the artist finally dawns:
humor trumps all aesthetics
and there is, actually, only one thing
artistically Neanderthal:
the desire
to take it down.
Us-God
When "Us" starts singing
to a you and a me,
Nature
leans forward
on her swaying pulpit
to deliver a furious green sermon.
Church
starts coming to us.
When "Us" starts singing
to a you and a me,
Prayers
seem painfully manufactured
like a mortician struggling
with a shattered face.
Religion?
A frozen smile.
When "Us" starts singing
to a you and a me,
A magnificent muteness
blazes
like the full moon
in every eye.
I love you?
Overworked poetry.
When "Us" starts singing
To a you and a me,
Gossip
glimmers
like the surface of a pool
rumored to be bottomless.
My opinion?
Too curious to stay afloat.
Roofless World
There's nothing romantic or liberating about it -
this cowering in a sleeping bag -
watching the twinkling menace
collapsing the screen tent
of who I think I am.
It is not some primordial exercise of freedom.
A landlord still hovers.
The rent is still exorbitant.
In only one way
is it easier out here:
I stop my pining
for a dishonest night's sleep -
a break from the void's incessant grooming.
Insignificance, I decide,
will never stop dragging
it's pestering comb
across my scalp.
The best I can hope for:
An achy dawn,
motivation to admit
what coyotes can't articulate
and Buddhas wildly howl:
It takes a Gortex kind of silence
to withstand
this roofless world.
You can read more of Hunter's poetry and prose on his website and by signing up for his free monthly Styles of Awakening newsletter.
And, if what you read here speaks to you, you can order his new book, Brave New Prayers, a nondual prayer book in which essential Buddhist teachings are conveyed in gritty modern metaphor.