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When the time comes,
you'll have to pry
my cold dead hands
away from life.
The hold I have on here and now is tight.
The hold I have on here is much too much.
Loosen up, my dear.
Let go the hold you have on here
and hear the music of the spheres
informing you of what's out there.
Loose the hold you have on here.
To sense the motion of the spheres
to sense the union of the where,
just loose that hold you have on here.
Cling tightly to your hold on here
and you'll experience only that.
The tightness of your hold is what
you'll think life is—and that's a fact.
But loose the hold, let your feet swing
into the rhythm of the thing,
the thing that buoys you up, my dear,
is at the heart of everything.
The Dalai Lama has no hold.
He wafts his way through all the world.
Clinging's not what he does best.
He's the example to the rest
of us, who tend to squeeze
our fists and tightly seize
the things we've hoarded from our quest.
The Dalai Lama's not that way.
He doesn't cling, he doesn't grip.
Whatever he holds, he lets it slip
into the void, then he floats free.
I have to ask: when did you see
a man as trouble-free as he?
So there's the lesson. Learn it now
and save yourself a lot of grief.
Let Dalai Lama show you how
to loosen your grip and find relief.
Release those tightly gripping fists.
Make mind blank, imagine mists
disguising mountains unexplored.
See the hold we have on here.
What good it does us disappears
in face of positive release
when we loose the hold we have on here.
Shave and a haircut, two bits.
Wear this shoe only if it fits.
But loose the grip just once and see
what joy it is to feel free.
To feel untethered, floating, light
and know you'll drift within the bright
white light of night's full moon.
This freedom's not an hour too soon.
The bell will ring—will you still hold?
Will you fail to see the world unfold
itself before your eyes?
Let go your hold, observe night's skies.
See the hold we have on here.
Let it go now, let go of fear.
Let go of rigid old beliefs
and face life freely. No longer steer
your course with strait-laced mien.
Surrender now to the unseen.
Copyright 2011 Ann Tudor
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