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Endmost (Poem)
All could seem like a dream,
These grey skies, this pouring rain, this sodden earth.
But it does not, for these are real as anything.
What does this mean that these exist,
Measured against the need to say farewell?
Sorrow and joy have equal weight;
Turn one over to find the other.
As I look down the length of my days past,
I do not mourn.
The clouds have always been beautiful;
Tears matter no more than any other water;
The dirt accepts us without regard.
If I have forgotten to thank you or you or you,
Let these words suffice as time runs out.
I am so very grateful.
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The Inconsequence Of It All (Poem)
Artists die. Musicians die. Writers die.
Politicians die. Reporters die. Announcers die.
I die. You die. We all die.
I found an edible can of potted meat,
Dated from a long-ago war.
Scientists revived an ancient worm,
Frozen in time over the millennia.
We’re not all that, and when we’re gone,
Cyclic existence continues on.
Hari om tat sat.
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Do Apples Still Comfort? (Poem)
Once I would have given myself apples.
Apples for comfort, apples for solace.
I would have poured from a flagon honeyed wine.
IWine to soothe my troubled dreams, wine to soothe my sorrow.
I would have held these dear and kept them close
So not to dwell upon the morrow.
Had someone sought my counsel,
These would have been my most precious gifts to offer.
Now I seek not that provision, nor do I store such to bestow.
Good thing this, for the fruit trees stand withered; the wine casks sit cracked and sere.
All I have to show, to myself as well as others, is a cupboard made empty.
“Inhale the lingering scent of sweet memory, then let it go on the breath.”
See this changed storage made into an altar:
A mala strung with apple seeds rests beside copper bowls filled with water
A small bunch of grapes beside these, and the aroma of incense floats in the air.
What peace do I find before these? What boon to give, if someone asks?
