ONE
A great sadness is upon me,
like a mist in a forest no one can see.
It does not lift, this mist,
even when butterflies find their way through it
and wolves.
Not yet a wise man, still I already know
what people will say
when I confess to them this feeling of mine.
"Get a hobby",
"Count your blessings",
"Look at the bright side of life."
Spare me, please,
I am not looking for answers, my friends,
nor am I looking for questions.
I am just sitting here,
an unopened love letter on a Thursday afternoon,
a great sadness upon me.

TWO
I have made the only decision worth making today --
stop trying so hard,
the glorious gifts of God cannot be gotten that way.
They can only be received,
like rain to the thirsty,
like a long embrace unrequested,
like the way a baby looks at a stranger
and the stranger no longer feels strange.
Discipline is not the path to the heart
and never will be,
being a disciple is.
Of what, you ask,
of that which exists everywhere, all the time, forever,
needing nothing but itself to shine,
radiant, self-effulgent, already free, alive.
It has no name, this mirror of light,
even if you give it one, like a lover,
in a fit of adoration,
needing an object of devotion.

THREE
Here's what I know:
Nothing.
Here's what I've accomplished so far:
Less than that.
There is a sky overhead
and ground beneath my feet.
Everything else
is simply way too much to think about.

FOUR
One of the illusions of life
is that something needs to be done:
a field to mow,
a room to clean,
a destination to reach.
Actually, it's quite the opposite.
something needs to be undone,
untangled, unraveled, unmade,
like the spider web I weave each morning
pearled with dew,
to catch what I already have.

FIVE
On my death bed,
where I will not make love,
it is very likely,
after my long, slow ascent
into whatever comes next,
that I will find myself
apologizing to all the people
I was never quite able to love enough,
wishing I had been a much bigger field
for them to dance in,
dance and sing and laugh or do nothing at all
if that's what they wanted.
Like you, for example.

SIX
I have come to the end of the line.
This one!
The one above,
the one with only two words:
This
as in what is now before me,
free of assumption, story, and belief,
and one --
that which is irreducible,
what was there in the very beginning,
though I realize, of course,
it is certainly possible that something existed long before it,
something pristine, holy, and divine,
but please don't call it zero,
really, don't, I beg you,
your cleverness only reminds me of mine.
Before that, too.

SEVEN
I am a guest in my own house,
I am not the owner
even if you think I am.
I am just passing through,
like a breeze through a half-opened window
like a thought in your mind,
like a piece of thread through the eye of a needle,
tailor nowhere in sight.

EIGHT
Beethoven, the first time he realized he was deaf,
still listened,
what he heard was far beyond sound,
more like the place where sound originates.
You can call it music if you like,
but the real symphony is playing
inside the impulse to listen
even when there is nothing to hear
and no one on stage
to applaud for.

Comments

Posted by: Roberta Wall at November 4, 2019 12:20 AM

Posted by: Jez Collier at June 20, 2020 06:30 AM

Posted by: Steve Gorn at June 20, 2020 11:30 AM

Post a comment