also for viewing

check out my video haikus
and slideshow videos on youtube at "junahsowojayboda"

Friday, April 30, 2010

The apt for happiness

Happiness has no goal,

no direct intention,

not the product of results.

Each person is

the sole sourcefulness

of their happiness

and yet the presence

of happiness emanating

is incidental to the scourer.

Happiness is a term

from an observational view.

The one who initiates happiness

is unbound by results or claims.

Happiness has no

self-conscious position,

is not a summary situation,

has no imposed context

and defines nothing.

Happiness is an undisclosed


It is an involuntary self-permission

in an initiatory place of being.

Looking within,

for the apt of happiness . . .

Thursday, April 29, 2010

wind siblings (haiku)

up wind then down wind
are siblings of mine by air
breathing together

I could not save

So once,

now served

from a distant memory,

I saw

an irresistibly unavoidable clown

pulling a seemingly endless string

of brightly colored scarves

out from his chest.

I couldn’t look away.

At first, I thought

his clothes were magical,

pull by pull,

it seemed to me

a prism stream

of colored prayer flags

poured out of him.

His flowing gestures

were like swim strokes

in reverse

up this thin colorful stream

coming out of his soul.

But he mimicked laughter

all of this time

that he was swimming.

I wanted to give him

mouth-to-mouth resuscitation,

to CPR him

full of my sounds,

to set us both free.

He . . .

a mute prisoner

of his intoxicating,

what seemed,

crazy wisdom actions,

I could not save

but loved through me.

Wednesday, April 28, 2010

I Would Like Words

I would like words

to stand up
with what meaning can do
for any mind,
to activate and reveal

those inner electrical

contortionisms . . .
What is that brain flurry

set off by words?
Words . . . upon hearing

or directly thought,
and then there in the mind,

in some nanosecond registry

and onto response.
Right there,

before utterance in return,
possibly before verbal assembly,

there is the exercise
of discreet unseen

operational rules,
before conversing emerges.
With words,

it is so passé within the brain,
even before

understanding’s salivation.
Sure there is this loiter

of topic within us,

some things we all hold

as always in plain view.
But also

there are all these other

embellishing aspects.
To take word delivery

and input the fanfare of speech
for how is something

that is so automatic

but also so veiled
by concealing methods of beyond

or beneath or behind.
What we have agreed to

is obscured beyond belief.
In that we agree to agree,

there is no challenge to it in practice.

Understanding may bring forth

a challenge to meaning as shared.

I would like words
but I want conveyance

out of conversation.
Maybe speaking in tongues

is all I am asking.

I want confluence as a stream,

by what a person is saying

into a hologram of shared presence

for there and then.
I want no more description
and less understanding

as an end repose.
I want more internal raptness

from what is externally said.
This is not to get agreement

to agree with what words said.
This is be there

and empathetically tone-blend

within it back.

It is not asking for collusion

but more so collectively concurrent.

Words are capable droplets,

working towards

a co-shared fluid state.

Always a yes with words,

as a fountaining,

wet with what sound bestows,
towards a torrential rain

with the senses submerging
towards one pooling,

with no additions

from a linear sense
just pooling,

as it continues towards

humanity as ocean.

I would like words.
I do not want to settle for

cups or bowls or bottles full.
I want amphibious-like empathy
instead of self-consciousness.
I want the oxygen and hydrogen gods
of our chemical watery makeup
to tell the story,

yet within words
but for us

to not settle for wordiness,

to not reside

in the residue of meaning
as if it is of a substance

like a self-imposed

limiting metaphor,

or the impotence of understanding

based on the meaning of words.

I would like words . . . then.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Each Snowflake

Each individual snowflake

of humanity

is forever forming

from its own

personal storm

yet all

are from one world

of commonly shared


Monday, April 26, 2010

If A Thought

If a thought

were a complete process,

from sensory input

to subsequent action

then how does that process

do its work?

What is taken

from the senses

that is so workable

to initiate

that process forward?

Is this then

the brain in identification

or the work

of formal understanding,

forming some sense

of direction and directives

to launch as actions

towards results?

And how is experience

as an observer

seductively furthering

the whole process along?

Is this the outset

of the journey,

with the senses

as opening lines,

as all stories of this nature

start with

either survival or procreation?

Is this still the advent

of thought before abstraction,

thought as a stand alone,

before the art of deduction,

before intentions

and visions

and repetitions?

Is thought . . .

only a process

or a product?

If either is so

then is a fact

a by-product

of thought’s inquisition,

a hostage by contrivance,

a deeper spin

than just motive can reveal?

Was the ‘information age’

then a situation

of divide and conquer?

Is understanding

then just a means

of giving appearances

to a kind of wise myopia?

Isn’t thought,

in its most prevalent

operational use

just a form

of insular solipsism . . .

set free?

Sunday, April 25, 2010

Why Worth?

Why does worth work?

Is worth really only

a seductive imaginary?

Is worth an ongoing blender

of desirable add-ons,

with a pinch more of appeal

and a dash of demand

and only then does fulfillment

assert itself into frame.

For where within

does worth come from

before summary in the mind

gives motive

a context identified as valued?

And how does emerging worth

sponsor that?

Is worth really only a defense

for desire’s efforts?

Is this imagining that becomes

the appearance of worth,

where relatedness all begins?

Why worth?

What are we up to

when we use worth?

Saturday, April 24, 2010


Let surrender be the subtlest hint

of an amnesia

from tension and control.

Do surrender

with not the slightest gesture

towards intent.

Do not name any particulars,

not even muttered,

for the mind as master

would once again misstate.

Surrender . . . less this word,

not even this concept

born out of thought no more.

For surrender is ignited

as if fiercely being quartered

by four horses into light

that is subsequently drown

in a flash flood of paradoxical fire

while the solid self ingot

of recognition is liquefied

into a foreboding inhalation brew

soon thickly swallowed into soul

as the chalice of time

you sip your life from,

toasts this Judas trait of yours.

For each sip’s pathway

dissolves of itself.

Recognition, as a long time friend,

is ever to so slowly dim to fade

as the inner sky of now

is exploding

with split-second’s stampedes

of full bore letting goes.

Surrender. . . alas

a final wince and toast

before the painlessness

of coming home.

A wily journey without reprise,

a directionless ascent

as illumination finely grinds,

as if to faint

into enormity’s embrace

this, as a full emptiness,

not to be revived.

Welcome into your surrender

with true overwhelm . . .

Friday, April 23, 2010

Shoe grin (haiku)

wingtip leather shoes

create shiny sheen grin cheeks

with each step forward

Thursday, April 22, 2010

Suffering and the opiate of you

Check your backpack

at the door of perception.

Leave your hiking boots

in plain mind sight,

resting from themselves.

Walk the walk

that has no past

stepping forward.

You are not becoming

a guide

for a sold-out self-tour.

This is not the land

of pity and disappointment.

There will be no postcards

to dash off.

This land does not feature

sorrow’s valley.

It does not explore

the joy of lofty peaks.

Invite yourself

into the map room

of think.

You know the editors,

the scouts, the reports,

and the shtick.

They gab.

They all have a beat,

as you.

But whom do they work for?

(This is as bleak as OZ!)

Find the projection room

and the wee pity-me in charge.

“Gees, who hired them as me?”

Is this your response?

Who is on that cell phone

in a sober serious manner?

Tap that call.

And who would you be

talking with?

Whoever that is

must be really pissed,

yakking a mile a minute.

Shit, it’s the other you.

The emotional persuasion

of all time,

well, not really,

but all of your time for sure!

You were born Siamese sort of,

the other being, still you.

The surgery was claimed successful.

That part of you, supposedly died

during the separation operation.

Ah, but we come to know better.

They miraculously survived

under cloak and whisper

as the grand dame

of emotional self-splendor.

Not every one

has one of these phantoms

built in.


you didn’t get the manual

or notice all the features

that came with the other you.

Remember, your life

became really their life,

in absentia.

They lived through you,

kind of as you

but not for you,

well for you,

for them, really.

The she or he of you,

(not sure yet?)

has mega watt perception

and fantasy override

and options of projection

and soft sell,

and whispers as truth

and indulgence,

kind of as

the fantasy-answer to desire.

(Oh and opiate production

maybe theirs also!)

But, of course,

you have come to know

all of this over the years.

They made a great working couple

inside you as you.

Hey, we all got closet!

So here we are,

post OZ, more you,

than ever before.

But atrophy is everywhere

as anger a blazon.

They are, of course

much older as life goes

and sort of a bother

with a mouth access

that pitches bleak concrete

your mindful way.

You, as the operative,

are a big disappointment.

You, as the stalwart,

deed doer,

front man,

have falling on hard times

as their functionary.

They want up and right now

no excuses, just deliver,

times are awaiting, otherwise.

Wow, you must think-feel like

the phone piece in their hand

yelling at we-pity me

in the projection room

that was supposedly you!

Maybe a cocoon of you

but right now,

you are becoming


right before your eyes,

well, right before your eyes

that have no lids

and right beyond the obvious

those see-says

behind your apparent circumstance.

Which you is really you?

You ask?

You, the compassion of examiners,

coming forth out of the shadows

or you, betwixt and bewildered

but alone

well, maybe neither

in the metamorphosis

beyond now?

But, as self-stories go,

yours is transgressing into;

A. mapping the baron land

of aloneness.

B. it’s all mine

as the prison of me.

C. you have got to be

kidding me, they’re for real?

D. I feel a song coming on.

E. I am the musical

behind all the me-players.

F. Okay . . .

all of the above !

As you say,

you have choices . . .

and do.

So where are you going

with this suffering?

(Are there breakdowns,



and bad times?)

Just asking! . . . . .


it’s like am radio

that you can’t turn off.

It’s all you,

for all of them,

all the time!

For what you have come

to know and to be,

what better opiate are you

for them,

then that?