GIFT

 

I give my poems to other mouths,

the mouth of a torn cocoon,

hollow of a snake skin,

snipped umbilicus.

Trough of moonlight between dark waves

where the promiscuous wind is born.

Mouth of a sparrow,

but a species I have never seen

living in an olive tree on the edge 

of your desert.

It could be near Aleppo

where Rumi gathered bewildered listeners,

Muslim, Christian, Jew,

with no separation, because there was

no mind, only love.

I have not been there.

I give my poems to the mouths of roses

growing by the sea in a ruined abbey.

I have not been there.

I gently press my poems 

on the parted lips of twilight,

ambiguous curve, it could be a smile,

holding the final droplet of fire

in the silence between earth and stars.

Now you are gone, I do not ask where.

I pour this poem into our wound,

the spider of light in the shattered mirror

of our lost season, a well of emptiness.

Just breathe through 

your entangled solitude,

even if you cannot tell if it be 

Winter or Spring, Summer's end or Fall.

Let this poem be a kiss 

on the mouth of "ever"

in the frail brown body of the word

"ever-changing."

Painting by Bouguereau, Girl With A Pomegranate

The First Injustice

The first injustice is taking sides, blaming the other. "Right" and "Wrong" appear. Once our judgment creates that unfathomable gulf of separateness, there is no possible solution to the problem, until both "sides" have gone to war and exhausted themselves. Then, at the end of the war, which comes from exhaustion, not from reconciliation, there is a breath of healing, and a brief repose. A new world could blossom from that breath. But instead, we start judging, blaming, taking sides again. Why is being "right" more important than breathing peace?

Photo by Bahman Farzad

Tavern of Awakening (New Book Release June 28, 2024)

Title poem from the new bilingual book, 'Tavern of Awakening,' in English and German, released June 28, 2024: LINK

I got bored with spiritual practices.

Inhale counting 4, hold 2, exhale 6.

I did this in first grade arithmetic.
Why not just dive into zero?

I can’t even lie in Corpse pose anymore.

Maybe there's a Coyote posture,

or a Wounded Raven asana.
That bronze yogini in her bikini's

been sitting in Full Lotus over an hour.
She's still smiling: did she get a better mantra?

On your inbreath think, "breathing in,”

on your outbreath, "breathing out,"

but why not think, "My grandmother

rides her red tricycle through golden atoms

of intergalactic chicken broth?"

So I took my complaints to the Master

who just laughed and said,

“When did you actually see me 

doing any of that crap?”

Then he threw his arm over my shoulder

and led me to the Tavern of Awakening,

where everyone gets instantly drunk

by practicing absolutely nothing.

Nobody knows who's giving the party, or why.

Lovers just show up with big empty cups
and dance in a mambo line all night,
swigging from a jug of stars whose light
won't arrive for a thousand years.

Just before dawn, he whispers in my ear,

"Don't call me Master anymore, call me Friend."

Then he gives me all the advice

I'll ever need, for free: "Honor your body,

it's a garden of ancient weddings.

Christ kisses Magdalene here,

where your rib is missing.

Be a flute at Krishna’s lips,

he’ll breathe music through you.

And when you bow, bow to your own heart:

its pulse is the hum inside all names of God.

Now take off your shoes,

walk softly over the earth,

and pulverize diamonds with your whirling."

Listen to this poem HERE.

Loosen

 

Stop all this hand-wringing.

Be brave.

Loosen every buckle and strap.

This is how the world is saved.

Come out in the meadow and crush

a ripe raspberry on your tongue.

Let the new earth fatten and swell

around the seed of this moment.

Can you sweeten your lips with love

before you savor the berry?

Quench your heart with gratitude

for something so luscious and small?

The radical act is being present.

The revolution is to breathe.

Painting by Persian artist Mahmoud Farshchian

Parable of the Tavern

 

One night Jesus, Krishna, Buddha and Mohammad went to a pub.

It was quite an evening. When it was very late, the tavern keeper brought them the bill. They began to argue.

Jesus looked at Krishna and said, "You claim that your pot is always full no matter what gets taken out of it. You pay the bill."

Krishna looked at Buddha and said, "You don't cling to anything because you claim its all emptiness. Why don't you empty your pockets."

Buddha looked at Jesus and said, "You say you'd sacrifice anything for your friends. You could at least pay our tab."

Then all three of them turned to the Prophet and stared at him in silence. "Don't look at me," he said. "I don't drink." They kept staring. "Well all right," he said, "I'll admit I tasted the corks, but I didn't swallow."

That ignited a heated argument, until the tavern-keeper, who wanted his money, sidled over to their table.

"Listen," he said. "The wine is Love. The more you drink the more you share, until even your laughter is the Word of creation. Therefore, the drunkest among you should act like it, and pay the bill!"

Hearing that, all four emptied their pockets, insisting on paying the tab, and gratifying the tavern keeper with an enormous tip. Linking arms, they staggered out through the night in perfect friendship, singing a song so crazy that no one has ever understood it, though many try to write it down.


Image: notorious Last Supper scene from Lui Bunuel's 'Viridiana'