Hallway to Nowhere

Category: tea

  • Afternoon At Knossos (Poem)

    tea led us into the labyrinth

    where we followed different threads

    into complex conversations

    he is passionate about a desert

    and the burning man

    an inventor who likes to juggle ideas

    with multiple spheres in the air

    spinning them with dazzling speed

    transparent yet opaque

    he used the word magic so often

    this clearly was a need

    and somehow reminded me of a faraway friend

    who quotes with mournful mien

    the world is too much with us

    I’ve never sought magic and as for the world

    I find curiosity and kindness to be enough

  • This Morning (Poem)

    the chant of refuge

    the ring of the bell

    the water hitting the cup

    the leaves in the water

    I cannot make tea

    I cannot break silence

    both rest in themselves

    breathe

  • No Surface Ripple (Poem)

    I sit beside myself, an absence waiting

    not to be filled nor emptied

    just there as another way to be

    I watch as I lift a cup

    seeing thoughts drift here and there

    attended to only as the weather

    no distraction from the tea

    fragrant and green with a vegetal edge

    perfect in this moment

  • Tea and Moon (Poem)

    on the surface of the tea, a moon

    tilt the cup, pour it into your hand

    gently gently hold it there

    resting in silent contemplation

    fold it into your heart

    it has always been there

    shining unseen on a hidden shelf

    behind the little stones we gather

    to throw in all directions but mostly back at ourselves

    not realizing these conceal such light

    don’t forget to finish the tea

    wash the cup and put it away

    who knows what the next time will bring

  • The Celadon Cup (Poem)

    crackled with beautiful threads

    webbed by years passing well, each line a story

    whispered lives of master farmers

    distant rocky terraces and trees older than human span

    infused with craft and love

    hands that hold it now, my hands

    likewise display patterns of time, historied wrinkles thinning skin

    etched by so many memories, moments beyond recall

    always, always there is tea

  • Stillness Within Movement (Poem)

    rain pummels hard the roof

    wind throws branches against the walls

    creek rushes down the street

    darkness hits with an audible thud

    leaves aged for nineteen years

    rest inside a celadon cup

    a swirl of hot water poured and then

    in a few moments, tea

  • The Moment Before Tea (Poem)

    some afternoons hover on the edge

    a rough pottery cup falls from my hand

    spilling dreams across the kitchen table

    their brilliance saturates the wooden surface

    as it turns live with colors previously unknown

    rain drops transform into birds with glassine feathers

    that fly through the smazy windows

    in a dazzling glitter of reflected phantasmical hue

    all vanishes as I retrieve the cup

    tea is ready

  • Home. Tea. (Poem)

    until I am home, there is tea.

    since I have no home, I have tea.

    anywhere I dwell is temporary.

    cups also; they break, are given away, or simply disappear.

    tea remains,

    each sip lasting as long as one breath.

    that is enough. that is all.

  • The Dreitch (Poem)

    caught outside in beginning pour

    trying to run between drops

    fleeing inside confused wet

    shaking water off hands feet

    rain falling harder

    roof jumping with noise

    curl up in bed hiding

    eventually emerge for tea

  • Bitter Disappointment (Poem)

    My mother took me to a tea room.

    She promised a special treat.

    What kind of tea would it be?

    Some tea brought from China, pressed into a cake,

    Aged so that it was even older than I?

    Some tea from Japan, fine-leafed and green,

    Served in a cup more delicate than my dreams?

    We entered into ordinary room that tried to make itself special

    With cloying incense and scarf-draped lamps.

    No other customers, for she had reserved the entirety of the hour.

    The server poured us tea,

    From a commonplace pot into commonplace cups.

    She told us that we were to swirl it once

    Then pour it out quickly into a bowl on the table.

    A woman came and read our fortunes aloud,

    Speaking with a fake Creole accent,

    And made us each a taped recording.

    I carried mine for years.

    The taste of the tea I never drank lingers on my tongue.