song of terror

wife of all bliss
emerges from her cloak of flames
shrieking, like a wounded crow

the end of reasoning
is the beginning of understanding
it is a terrible truth
an excruciating joy

Sona's lesson

My favorite story of the Buddha's teachings --


don't string it too tight
or the strings will break
neither string it too loose
or no music will it make
life is like the vina
moderation is what it takes
to play the haunting melody
by which you awake

my left hand

not knowing
what my right hand
knows, my left, a jealous mess
constructing delusions
spiraling up into the sky
fantasy building upon fantasy
reaching for ambitious heights

it is a hip jazz pianist's rhythmic appendage
boogie woogies with such a groove
stride and glide, pounding bass notes
and comping chords
swinging audiences
heralding in a new age of cool

it is the end of the fullback's arm
swiping linebackers aside
riding into the end zone
spiking the ball on the turf
of the promised land

and now it orchestrates the movements
of the Universe
shines light onto blind eyes
illuminating minds with cosmic insights
God's left hand

it never stops dreaming
of a better lot in this world
a more fascinating work
sick with envy
while the brother who hands out charity
with such humility
reclines in the shade
of the secret bough of graciousness

whose mind is it anyway?

it's my mind of course
but who am I without “my” mind?
a felt perception of "I"-ness?
your royal f-ing highness?
a ghost in the middle of a field of knowing?
the tootsie roll center? an elusive wind blowing?
or nothing much, or nothing at all
not even nothing nor no-nothing
not fat, thin, short, or tall
"neti, neti" say the seers
not this, not that, not white or black
not straight, bi, queer or trans
trans-cending the human that “I” am?
not knowledgeable, ignorant
high class or low
who am I who watches this show?
someone in here would sure like to know
the operator of my pocket calculator?
not an ounce of help from this world we live in
when I punch in the numbers
no conclusive answer given

a hard rain's gonna fall

birds don't stop being birds
when October is warm
when hurricanes pound the south
when drought hits California
when ignorance rules like a blind wind
when compassion is sold on e-bay
when all the bicycle riders and electric car drivers
and oil company divestors
and anti-fracking activists
have been silenced or outlawed
or jailed

birds don't stop being birds

they fly into glass windows
of multi-national corporate offices
like so much hard rain
breaking their necks and beaks
their little hearts beat
their little hearts sing a melancholy song
for the passing of the great wayward brute
and the glorious planet
that will live again
in a different form

the morning I wake

I

she is too small to be a woman
but is neither child nor little person
shaved head, stubble of fro
I never understand what she is saying
what she is doing
stumbling around
the state hospital ward

II

the morning I wake
a different man
born again, as it were

plunged into terror the night before
the ward an ocean of panic
I breathed the broth of breakdown
it filled my lungs

but the sunrise brings the sublime

III

sitting in the day room
doubling as a dining room
I watch my fellow inmates
seated, as well
bent over, twiddling thumbs
or looking forward
in seeming indifference
all of us awaiting
the taking of vital signs

and I finally understand
with a new perspective
in a light I could never could have imagined
the vast contemplations
the patience, long-suffering and sacredness
of those I had judged for years

IV

and tiny Johnetta
comes fumbling up the hallway
falling over her robe
clutching now and again
the railing to the side

I greet her
finally having the gumption
to ask her what's wrong

she mumbles, through dry mouth
and congealed spittle
"the meds making me talk this way"
I nod assent, "you're so drugged
you can't walk straight?"

a smile lights her eyes
her face, she nods
gives me a hug
looks like she wants to give me a kiss

someone has heard her
but more amazing --
through thick ego and unfeeling
someone had the empathy to ask

Hay Ride

How sorry I am
I did not recognize you
when you came to me,
the light flooding the fields
corn standing tall, a maze of stalks.
How neglectful of me
to miss the imprint of your hand
on the thick nest of trees
the near-dry creek
the winding tendrils, making their ways
up branches to leaves,
your peace wending its way
into our hay wagon
onto the suns of faces
of friends and strangers
in whose flawed, awed beauty
I likewise missed your presence.