“Harvest moon: around the pond I wander and the night is gone.”

Seek not the paths of the ancients; Seek that which the ancients sought.

He who creates three to five haiku poems during a lifetime is a haiku poet. He who attains to completes ten is a master.

Why so scrawny, cat? Starving for fat fish or mice… Or backyard love?

Breaking the silence Of an ancient pond, A frog jumped into water – A deep resonance.

An autumn night – don’t think your life didn’t matter.

How much I desire! Inside my little satchel, the moon, and flowers.

Clapping my hands with the echoes the summer moon begins to dawn.

Around existence twine, (Oh, bridge that hangs across the gorge!) ropes of twisted vine.

The universe and its beings are a complementarity of empty infinity, intimate interrelationships, and total uniqueness of each and every being.

The moon is brighter since the barn burned.

Calm and serene The sound of a cicada Penetrates the rock.

Spring rain leaking through the roof dripping from the wasps’ nest.

Summer grasses — all that remains of great soldiers’ imperial dreams.

Before enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water. After enlightenment, chopping wood and carrying water.

Learn the rules, and then forget them.

Go to the pine if you want to learn about the pine, or to the bamboo if you want to learn about the bamboo. And in doing so, you must leave your subjective preoccupation with yourself. Otherwise you impose yourself on the object and you do not learn.

In the absence of you I look to the moon and pray that the stars light my way, too.

Sooner and later you will see great changes made, dreadful horrors and vengeances. For as the Moon is thus led by its angel, the heavens draw near to the Balance.

There will be a great loss of learning before the moon’s full cycle is completed. Fire and floods will be fomented by ignorant rulers; much time will go by before it is rectified.

Moonlight is sculpture.

There is no greater power than that of the sun, the moon, and a woman who knows her worth.

You are what it feels like to watch the final silvers of sun fall and die into the silver ocean; tangerine sky giving way to moon-glow and starlight.

I talk to the moon and she tells me its okay to change.

The night folds her trembling hands over a weary world. Out of a pale blue rises the shining moon. My thoughts are flying to the stars like lonely swans.