First, a poem by Hisako Nakamura, who lost both her hands and feet at the age of three. She grew up in poverty and could only earn a living in a sideshow exhibition.
Hisako Nakamura wrote:After a moment of irritability, I reflect.
And prostrate myself before the Buddha.
What should I do about my selfish desires?
I can only leave it in the hands of the Buddha.
The white chrysanthemums I offer the Buddha
Its pure odor remains as I chant the morning sutra.
The cheapest of rice gruel (that I am)
That allows me to live.
The worship that brings such happiness,
the karma that the mother bears,
And the karma that she forces her daughters to bear
Are all borne by the Buddha
(So I must do my part by living to the fullest today.)
Sixty years without hands or feet
Only because the Buddha's
Compassionate hands and feet
Have taken the place of mine.
Cathy Song wrote:Every morning I come to Shoshinge.
Every morning it is the same.
Between my mind and the mind of compassion,
Amida Buddha's wisdom and light,
the hymn flutters like a veil.
All is settled.
All is well.
I am the recipient of all that is settled,
of all that is well.
I long to enter the veil,
I give up my voice,
coarse, thick phlegm stone of sleep,
to meet the infinite
bountifulness with breath
moments of faith.
Every morning it is the same.
All is settled.
All is well.
I long to enter the veil.
I open my mouth, a cave
blackened with the smoke of desire.
I open my throat to lift
stone from breath and push
what falls firm
in the heavy tide of night.
My sorrowing heart staggers into sunlight
drunk with complaints,
easily distracted,
burdened and unsettled.
It waits.
Sing, practice, surrender!
All is assured
but my heart, blindfolded, attaches
disappointments, pins grievances
upon the veil like a child
spinning in circles, left
holding the donkey's tail.
I fling my worries upon the veil,
a tangled web of fetters.
Cluttered heart!
So disorderly and rude!
Every morning I come to Shoshinge.
Every morning it is the same.
Ternavski, translated from the original Esperanto wrote: To whom would you bring your grievance?
Even now, you have a boat,
even now, small fires have been lit for you on a distant island.
But you were afraid
(really, we must be honest with ourselves sometimes)
you were scared to leave the shore in such a boat.
But he wasn't afraid,
and in his small boat, he reached the island
that you've dreamed of your entire life.
And now,
when he describes to you
the trees that are there,
the birds that are there,
the flowers that are there --
you listen closely
with interest
and regret.
I also offer some of my own poetry. I hope others aren't too shy to share their writings as well, to point to this marvelous Other-Power and encourage others.Zenshin 善心 wrote:i don't say the nembutsu for my birth in the Pure Land
that was already accomplished by Dharmakara Bodhisattva aeons ago
i say the nembutsu because some people infuriate me
i say the nembutsu because i lose my temper about petty shit
i say the nembutsu because i use people
i say the nembutsu because i hurt the ones i love
(and love discriminately)
i say the nembutsu because i cling to what does not last
i say the nembutsu because i always want more of what i do not have
i say the nembutsu because i am ignorant
i say the nembutsu because i believe it is me saying the nembutsu
i say the nembutsu because i lie to others and myself
i say the nembutsu because i pretend to be humble
i say the nembutsu because i am arrogant
i say the nembutsu because i am full of pride
i say the nembutsu because i am not a bridge
i say the nembutsu because i am not a raft
i say the nembutsu because i am not Santideva
i say the nembutsu because i am not a bodhisattva
i say the nembutsu because i am human all too human
with all the frak up contradictions, inadequacies and blind passions which ensue
and because i am loved and held in spite of myself
i say the nembutsu
namandabu
namandabu
namandabu
Erik Olson wrote:trees superbly high
clouds even higher
---
in my smallness, the greed always wins
still Amida turns back and calls me by name
waitingly,
waitingly
---
How vast, I can't say a single word that doesn't come from Your lips,
my skin is made of clouds, my bones of ocean waters.
Every good thing is cast wide over me, but my eyes are so small.
I do not have rights to one iota of dust,
yet in my hands I want to heal this suffering mass.
My doubt and death sparkle like water in bright sunlight.
Somehow, even my small eyes can see that.
I understand not one bit of it,
but such a display,
how wonderful! how wonderful!
---
that old forest path
closed off on both ends
there was a cat in there
mud flesh on stick bones
until he was just mud and sticks
i saw him every single time
and one day
he was wild green briars
and the forest path
was closed off on both ends
It's not about cultivating self-hatred or obsessing about "some pile of shit we are". 
