Walter's Writing


I look beyond myself to see myself.

 With deepest contentment I watch the sunrise.

With deepest contentment I watched the Son rise.

I Am.


I come in form,

 To sense the form around me.                                

 I Am moved to sense the wonder of

 I Am.

Edited Sat, Apr 19, 2008 2:00 PM

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Who I Am


I Am a cherry blossom.

I Am joyous to unfold and see you joyously behold me.

I Am all the cherry blossoms.

I Am the Day

In which they unfold.

I Am awed by the unfolding.

Edited Sat, Apr 19, 2008 1:56 PM


Winter Tree

The season of the Winter Tree

Is soon to pass

The view that could be seen from its bare, high, branches

Will soon be forgotten in the riotous cover of spring


The season of the Winter Tree

Is soon to pass

Where once there was silence

There will be the deafening roar of birth and life


The season of the Winter Tree

Is soon to pass

And soon there will be no remembering


But the Winter Tree will not weep

Though it feels the passing of its season


The Winter Tree will not weep

Though it knows that it passes from remembering


The Winter Tree will rest, but always remain

 Beneath the time of our seeing.

Edited Sat, Apr 19, 2008 1:56 PM


                                                        In My Tent

(I sit within my own tent. I do not seek anything that may be found beyond it. I am content to sit alone in my tent.)

I see you at the door of my tent-you who wishes to be admitted. Because I Am, at heart, a simple man, I find it best not to burden myself with how you come to be here. In my tent, when I find someone who asks to be admitted, I am bound to attend.

Everyone that enters my tent is my sacred responsibility. To that, I will be as I Am. Whether you stay in my tent is Inshallah.

In my tent you will receive my mindful attention. You will be heard.

In my tent your comfort, insofar as you allow me to attend to it, is my sacred responsibility.

In my tent we speak slowly, with few words, but in the full confidence of every word spoken.

In my tent you need have no fear. My life is yours, while you are in my tent. No harm can come to you, insofar as my life can act as a guarantee.

There is no pain within my tent. No hunger, no need that will go unattended.

In my tent you are always welcome. You are, also, always welcome, no matter the moment, to Be, unmolested, to Be, Still-in your tent, in my tent.

Edited Sat, Apr 19, 2008 2:05 PM


I Remember My Shoes


          I remember a cold, wet, fall evening stuffed full of unseasonal sentiment. Hope, promise, spring, played out, with lots of cash, tucked away from the elements on the most fashionable floor of the Big Downtown Store.

            I remember first seeing my shoes, hand stitched Johnson and Murphy's. A soft shoe, nicely stitched. I felt its buttery leather, noted its practical nature, smiled at its original price, $220, and pleased, parted with my $69.95. My hand stitched Johnson and Murphy's joined my jacket and slacks, shirts and sweaters-like bandit's booty to be marveled at in a pile on my bed after closing.

            As I gathered my purchase, out of the corner of my eye, pointy-toed, alligator stamped leather, Steve Madden's. Sale priced, last pair, my size. For two and a half years, me and my Madden's kicked a pointy shaped hole in the backside of life. Penthouse parties, swinging scenes-easy slide in and easy slide out Steve Madden's.

            A few months ago, I discovered my Johnson and Murphy's hand stitched shoes lying near the back of my closet. They looked comfortable and warm-just what I needed for my new job delivering papers through the night. Once again, I noted their practical nature, smiled at their original price, and felt the comfort of their quality.

            I wore them away, my Johnson and Murphy's; it seems like in no time at all. Finally, with soles flapping, holes happening, I brought my shoes back to the mall. This time, I swallowed my pride, to face the shoe mender, and ask if they could be repaired. I needed their comfort, their fit, and more wear from my hand stitched Johnson and Murphy's pair. He looked at me, then the shoes in my hand. He shook his head and my heart truly sank. 

            So as we walk home, my shoes, you and I, I will remember.

Edited Sat, Apr 19, 2008 2:05 PM


"On being a father"


Let me be like the Winter Tree.

A strong place,

But with branches bare,

Upon which my children may perch.

Where they may rise and return.

A clear space,

From which to see the world around them.

Edited Sat, Apr 19, 2008 2:20 PM


What a day

Spring blossoms burst against Winter Tree

The blueness of Sky binds us together

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