it all becomes too loud
unkind words with sharp edges
shuriken hurled from screen and mouth
walking the street an act of endurance
yet anchors of stillness even beyond breath
rebel flower half-hidden stubborn with purple bloom
stark outline of a tree bare against gray sky
slow drift of a bird in dying noon
and always always just outside reach
the coolly radiant nocturnal moon
sit on your cushion and chant
lokah samastah sukhino bhavantu
may all beings be happy
(may you be happy)
sit down uncaring of brown sodden grass
clank clangor clarion noise saturates the surround
graffitied cars speed color through gray rain
rumble grumble lumber vibrates underfoot ground
briefly no self no other but only this
the passing rush of the train
the day begins.
tears before I’m awake,
the absence of you an ache,
still I rise and open the door,
knowing that the day will greet me
if I allow it, and so I do.
this morning I saw treetops on the ridge
shine in golden glory within the early dawn,
a brief bright exultance in the winter’s gloom,
and thought, “this. this is enough.”
once I would have demanded more,
before you and the knowledge
that love is also a sudden flash of radiance,
unexpected in brilliance and depth,
gone in an instant.
I learned to hold beauty lightly with an open heart:
dancing snow drifting smoke daggered moonlight
entwine around my fingers and fall from my outstretched hands.
Wearied by these discussions of things I cannot affect
Storms darken the skies over mountains coasts plains deserts
Bombs fall upon the helpless here and here and here
Parties await the change of the year in metropolei cities towns villages
Babies get born die people get sick die some recover all eventually die
All sometimes just too much and I want to say stop of course nothing stops
My primeval self-concept urges flight back to measured tranquility
Suspension of belief wants immersion again in Skeptical therapeutics
Indeed this provides a temporary respite but only that
Now a different path engages me
With this world other worlds the endless arguments that give them form.
Because there is no beginning no ending
Not even an ouroboros but more a writhe of serpentine time
I revisit the past reexamine my roots reword my existential stories
Who I am today changes who I was but who I was influenced who I became
A twisted entanglement that cannot be teased into separate threads
All or one or some lead to who I will become but really
All eventualities are present in each moment of my becoming
And voidness too is there in the pause before
This happens just so this happens regardless therefore no need
To try any harder than I do no need to make my eyes see the back of my head
It is there or not a hand clap a finger snap and I know
Just breathe
I thread my griefs like beads,
Stringing them as a mala
Of impermanence, for remembrance.
Loved ones, teachers, fictional characters.
Letters etched around each one,
According to their native language.
Kind words. Harsh words. All the same.
Each lacquered by tears to seal them.
I run these through my fingers now,
As I add my breath to yours.
How long? Only this.
No beginning. No end.
How many tears are enough for the grief of the world?
Can anyone now say even to themselves,
“I can only mourn for this one loss?”
Your heart will shatter anyway, and your eyes will burn from the salt.
So now when we cry, whenever we cry, let our tears
That flow with the wails of newly widowed women, that run down the faces of dying children, that drip unseen onto the hands of solitary men, and the ordinary ones that we shed from expected loss and unexpected reverberations
Let our tears mingle into one great river.
We cannot come together to stop death. We can at least come together to share our sorrow.
(Tara was formed from the tear of Chenrezig who wept in compassion over a suffering world.
Om tare tutare ture soha.)
No grief over the knowledge
That I’ve never seen my own face,
Only relief.
These images from different mirrors
Glittering back at me
In shop windows, photographs, and even a painting
Are mere appearances.
Likewise, one of my teachers suggested
That altars only have an bare space resting
Where the buddha would be.
On my altar I have placed a statue of Chenrezig,
The bodhisattva of compassion.
always considering the worth of this
the energy effort expended in writing
transient ephemeral malleable
these words one thing to me the writer
quite another to you the reader
why should anyone want to bother
why should I
if we cannot even see our own faces
then what do we see in the words of another
Sometimes (ofttimes) I want to be finished with this life.
The wearisome minutiae of the body demanding attention,
Insistent muttering claims that needs must be addressed over and over and over.
I answer these as best I can.
I do so in full knowledge that these efforts are but a slight delay.
Everyone crumbles in the end and flees their particular carapace.
Mine was not well constructed or comfortable or nice,
A hasty and ill-conceived effort from the beginning.
Like all fleshy dominions, it has pride of being and the illusion of remaining.
I want to shrug it off and move on to whatever comes next,
Sick of being sick, and harried by the futility involved.
Let me be done and close my eyes.
(In my worst moments I fear doing just that.
Only to find on awakening that I’m once again here.
And here. And here. And here. A cicada who lives on,
Dying forever.)
Still, suffering mind. Breathe and know you’re breathing.
Let the beads slip with that rhythm through your fingers.
Om mani peme hung. Om mani peme hung. Om mani peme hung.
