Zen Aims At Freedom But Its Practice

Clambering Up The Cold Mountain Path, The Cold Mountain Trail Goes On And On: The Long Gorge Choked With Scree And Boulders, The Wide Creek, The Mist-blurred Grass. The Moss Is Slippery, Though There's Been No Rain The Pine Sings, But There's No Wind. Who Can Leap The World's Ties And Sit With Me Among The White Clouds?

Streams And Mountains Never Stay The Same.

As A Poet I Hold The Most Archaic Values On Earth . . . The Fertility Of The Soil, The Magic Of Animals, The Power-vision In Solitude, The Terrifying Initiation And Rebirth, The Love And Ecstasy Of The Dance, The Common Work Of The Tribe. I Try To Hold Both History And The Wilderness In Mind, That My Poems May Approach The True Measure Of Things And Stand Against The Unbalance And Ignorance Of Our Times.

The Mercy Of The West Has Been Social Revolution; The Mercy Of The East Has Been Individual Insight Into The Basic Self/void.

There Are Those Who Love To Get Dirty And Fix Things. They Drink Coffee At Dawn, Beer After Work. And Those Who Stay Clean, Just Appreciate Things. At Breakfast They Have Milk And Juice At Night. There Are Those Who Do Both, They Drink Tea.