Inspirational Poetry: Nondualism Poems

This selection of inspirational poetry focuses on the nondualism where there is no more me or you, but only One.

"We live in succession, in division, in parts, in particles. Meantime within man is the soul of the whole; the wise silence; the universal beauty, to which every part and particle is equally related; the Eternal One."--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Traveler 12, Janaka Stagnaro

Going Home

Dear friends and family and intimate foes,
I must apologize
for I am going home.

And this home
is a very small home;
it is really not even a hut.

It has no room
for you to come and visit,
not even room
for a chest to hold a few things.

This home is so small
it has no room for even me.

Yet I am going home
with no garments
to get snagged on the threshold.

I am going home
with no memories
issuing from my lips of old.

I am sorry I cannot even thank you,
for I do not hold any condemnations
to bounce off any gratitude.

Even your faces lined with smiles
and streaked with tears
are nothing but a shimmer
behind me on this warm road.

I am going home,
and by going I arrive.

Arriving in the home
where there lives only ONE.

Being Born

There is a birth happening--
happening right now!

The whole world shudders
with the groans and moans of labor.

And shivers with the thrill of its ecstasy.

Who is being born?


Right now.

This very moment.

Coming right out of you.

However, if you hold onto
any circumstance of the past,
any happening whatever,
or imagine what tomorrow might bring,

You will scream in agony
in the feeling of being torn apart.

But relax
letting the past slip away
like flowers from the stern of a ship,
bobbing in offering in the waves of the wake.

And tying your what-might-be thoughts to every breath,

You will moan and writhe
shivering from head to soul
in an ecstasy
no physical union could even provide.

So relax

And enjoy this moment
and relish all those big bellies swelling around you.

Crushing Leaves

Dear friend,
I understand your suffering
as you watch all around you,
all that you have called dear
, fall away
from your grasping hands.

No one said
catching shadows was an easy task.

Dear friend,
I understand the turning of your stomach
as you await tomorrow’s return,
trying to ward it off
with bloodied hands.

No one said
crossing the road of the roadster time
was an easy task.

Dear friend,
are you not tired
of the searing heat,
of trying to fashion the goals of the world
into ornaments of happiness?

Janaka is.

He walked through a forest one day
and watched the leaves
from Manzanita trees fall,
and crushed them one by one with his footfalls,
as happy as a child.

What were those leaves?

Everything he called his own.

Every fear
every hope
every desire
every love.

All his memories
all the people in his life
all the events and circumstances.

and old age.

Even birth
and death.

What was left of Janaka
you might ask?

Only being a tree,
growing in the Silence.


And drinking in the Sun.


Trust in your eyes,
And like a fool
You will flee the rope
And pat yourself on the back
For having escaped a snake.

Trust in your eyes
And like a fool
Your mouth will be full of desert sand,
Trying to quench your aching thirst.

Trust in your eyes
And like a fool
You will find yourself waist deep,
And going deeper,
As you try to cross what appears to be solid ground.

Nothing you see is as it is.
It is no more than a mirage,
An image filtered through existing beliefs.

You look upon the world,
And all those images you see,
You believe exist outside yourself.

You are separate.
They are there.
This is the premise by which you see.

You want this.
You shun that.

But what you want you have known.
And what you shun you have known.

Look at a child,
Or the Master,
Each thing they come across is new,
Is born that very moment.

What was once a bowl
Now is a hat,
And then becomes a house for ants.

The eyes of a child,
Or of the Master,
Blesses the world with fresh light,
Chasing away musty shadows
Of yesterday’s perceptions;
Chasing away ancient shadows
Of this and that—
Me and you.

And when the child
Or the master looks upon you,
It is the present that beholds you,
Free of all mistakes
And all accomplishments,
And sees you only as you are.

It is freedom to look upon the world as a child,
With no schemes, no ambitions
, Only the simple act of blessing the world
With the birth of the moment.

You want to do good works?
You want to save the world from its misery?

You need not go out of your way to feed the poor,
Or to go out and tend the sick.
Simply see the world with the eyes of a child.

For what the adult will find disgusting and foul,
Like excreta upon the grass,
The child will see it as a whole world onto itself,
Beckoning to be explored.

Be the child.
Be the Master.
See the world as it is.

And rejoice,
For God looks back at God.

--poem from Footprints Along the Shore of an Incoming Tide: Impressions of a Fellow Traveler

St. Jerome (watercolor rendition), Janaka Stagnaro The Beloved’s Cake

You want to know what the world is, friend?

Don’t go to scientists;
they just make up answers as they go.

Nor to priests;
they just rely on others’ words to know.

Nor to those who wallow in the wealth;
they see as far as they can grab.

But I will tell you.

The world is a cake.

That’s right.

A cake given to all of us by the Beloved,
to stuff our faces.

The Beloved has baked it lovingly,
and three layers does it have:

The top is piled high with frosting.
A great coating of sugar.

Most feast only on this sugar coating
that quickly pleases the taste.
Yet it is only sugar
and soon stomach aches follow.

This frosting never fills the belly
and strength fades swiftly away.

The second layer is not so sweet.
Only those tired with the emptiness of the frosting
will begin to taste the layer beneath the sugar.

You might not want to know, dear friend,
what this layer is made out of,
but I will tell you anyway;
for one day all must taste it.

It is made out of dung.

Not too tasty, I know.

And no matter how much frosting
you may eat with this dung
you will taste only sorrow.

No matter how high you pile it on,
no matter how thick,
your tongue will be covered with sugared shit.

However, do not despair
and shout to the Beloved:
'Don’t you know how to bake!?
What kind of cake is this!?’

Do not ask the Beloved to bake a new cake.
It is perfect as it is.

Instead, take the knife, friend,
the knife of discrimination
that the Beloved holds out to you,
which has been sharpened
upon the whetstone of all your disappointments.

Do not rant and spit out all that you have tasted
and say you will eat no more.

Take the knife
and cut.

Down through the final layer.
And make it a big piece.

Janaka took a piece.
At first just a sliver,
not wanting to appear too greedy.

But the Beloved is from the old country
And sees the guest as God,
and shoved the whole cake onto his plate.

And when Janaka shoved the whole thing
into his fat mouth
he could not even utter a word.

He could only smile.

What was the third layer made out of?

The heart of the Beloved--
Dripping with sweet love!

And what a treat it was!

Inspirational Poetry
Hafiz and Looking for Trouble
Inspirational Quotes
Inspirational Stories
Inspirational Books, Music and Movies
Nondualism and the Art of Becoming Human
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Dear Janaka Thank you for your latest offering, "The Beloved's Cake", which prompted some reflection. As I am relatively new to your list, I was …

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