Bardo

Bardo
In some schools of Buddhism, bardo … is an intermediate, transitional, or liminal state between death and rebirth.https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bardo 

The sun angles wrong on my eyelids;
I resist waking in this strange place.

I feel my father’s room;
The plants gone, the walls striped
Of the photos of the many people he loved,
The chairs and chest huddled together,
The bed barren, the lounge chair empty,

His life in boxes 
To be removed.


Blessings, 2019

Blessing
We live
In all our messy glory;
Trapped in time,
Suspended in place.

Waiting
For the next stage,
The next hope,
The answer that eludes us.

Hold out your hands.
Cup them together
To receive this grace:
You are already holy.


Another Blessing
Stand where you are,
Reach out your arms, 
Throw back your head,
Open your mouth.

Listen:
There is silence under.
Open your eyes:
Light bleeds into the dark.

Do not forget this moment.


The Third Blessing
There is no time solitary
Or gathered together
Where you are absent
Or alone.

Breathe,
Grasp,
Release,
Bow down.

Reach out,
Pull in,
Let go,
Rest.


Obligations Collide

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When obligations collide, my heart unfolds.
I try to read what is written for tomorrow
without my glasses. I must decide.

This slippery road leads me into strange spaces.
The centre collapses unexpectedly, but the periphery
may knit into a new street view. I search.

Steering blindly by what is yet hidden
I try to avoid the road rages of others
and drive cleanly into the mystery.

Compostable Dust

I imagine death
socking me
as I change lanes,
my hair flying as
it did in my youthful dancing

I imagine death
dulling me
as I lounge
watching war and weather casualties
on the tv news

I imagine death
surprising me
while I stretch in yoga class
earnestly trying to reach
more

I imagine death
counting what years I have
left
and know more deeply
that I am dust.

Writing in the Coffeeshop

Coffeeshop & laptops
Safely sitting in Whole Foods, this bastion of the upper middle class, watching all the young singles on their phones, and older singles on their laptops, not raising their eyes or speaking, even to themselves. Like them I’m writing essentially to myself. I wonder if I should text two uncertain connections. I wonder if I’m the same as the others as we all sit at every other single table, careful not to get too close.

Things Change

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Things Change

The name I used to murmur in delight
Now I sob over in the night.
Things change.

The woman I used to find so annoying
Now I watch, envious and admiring
Things change.

The work I loved and did so well
I’ve left behind; I lost the joy.
Things change.

The fear I carried so long and deep
I look at now and no longer weep.

Things change.