Poems List
When You Thought Me Poor
When you thought me poor,
my poverty was shaming.
When blackness was unwelcome
we found it best
that I stay home.
When by the miracle
of fierce dreaming and hard work
Life fulfilled our every want
you found me crassly
well off;
not trimly,
inconspicuously wealthy
like your rich friends.
Still black too,
now
I owned too much and too many
of everything.
Woe is me: I became a
success! Blackness, who
knows how?
Became suddenly
in!
What to do?
Now that Fate appears
(for the moment anyhow)
to have dismissed
abject failure
in any case?
Now that moonlight and night
have blessed me.
Now that the sun
unaffected by criticism
of any sort,
implacably beams
the kiss filled magic that creates
the dark and radiant wonder
of my face.
Working Class Hero
My brothers knew
The things you know.
I did not scorn
learning them;
It’s just my mind
Was busy being trained
For “Other Things”:
Poetry, Philosophy, Literature.
Survival, for a girl.
But now,
What a relief
To see you understand
The ways
Of horses
Their shyness
& hatred
Of
Loneliness:
That you will not
Hesitate
To rescue
An old horse,
Dying on
His feet
&
That you will
Cheerfully
Wash him,
Aged
&
Incontinent
Head
To
Toe. Missing
With your bucket
&
Rag
Not
One
Hidden
Crevice
As he
Trembles
& weeps.
What peace
To see
Raising chickens
Does not
Mystify you
and
Hot water heaters
& their ways
Are well known;
That electricity
& how it
Works
Is something
Within
Your grasp.
That you can
Get a car
To run
By poking
It in
A few mysterious
Places
Under
The hood.
That you can
Fix a
Broken
Anything: battery, truck, stove,
Door, fridge, lamp, chicken coop hinge
While teaching me
The ins and outs
Of Opera
Or
While singing
Lusty
Italian
Tenor
That
Shakes
The walls.
That you can
Sit, comfy,
Unperturbed
By traffic
In the womb-like
Back seat
Of my
Aging
Chariot
While I drive
& you
Ride
The silver
Black
& Golden
Horses
Of
Your
Trumpet.
What Makes The Dalai Lama Lovable?
His posture
From so many years
Holding his robe with one hand
Is odd.
His gait
Also.
One's own body
Aches
Witnessing
The sloping
Shoulders
& Angled
Neck;
One hopes
He
Attends
Yoga class
Or does Yoga
On his own
As part
Of prayer.
He smiles
As he bows
To Everything:
Accepting
The heavy
Burdens
Of
This earth;
It's
Toxic
Evils
& Prolific
Insults.
Even so,
He sleeps
Through
The night
Like a child
Because
Thank goodness
That is something
Else
Daylong
Meditation
Assures.
You could cry
Yourself to sleep
On his behalf
& He
Has done that
Too.
Life
Has been
A great
Endless
Tearing away
For
Him.
From
Mother, Father, Siblings, Country, Home.
And yet
Clearly
His mother
Loved him;
His brother & sister
Too:
Even his
Not so constant father,
Who
When Tenzin was
A boy
Shared
With him
Delicious
Scraps
Of
Succulent
Pork.
He laughs
Telling this
Story
Over half a century
Later
&
To who knows
How many
Puzzled
Vegetarians:
About
The way he sat
Behind
His father's chair
Like a dog,
Relishing
Each juicy
Greasy
Bite.
Whenever I see
The Dalai Lama
My first impulse
Is to laugh
I am so happy
To
Lay eyes
On
One
So effortlessly
Beautiful.
That balding head
That holds
A shine;
Those wire framed
Glasses
That might
Have come
From
Anywhere.
His look of having given
All he has.
He is my teacher;
Just staying alive.
Other teachers
I have had
Resemble him
In some way;
They too
Were
&
Are
Smart
And Humble;
Fascinated
By Science & things like
Time,
Eternity,
Cause & Effect;
The Evolution
Of the Soul.
A soul
That
Might
Or might not
Exist.
They too
See all of us
-Banker, murderer, gardener, thief -
When they look
Out across
The world:
But that is not all
They see.
They see our suffering;
Our striving
To find
The right path;
The one with heart
We may only
Have heard
About.
The Dalai Lama is Cool
A modern word
For
"Divine"
Because he wants
Only
Our collective
Health
& Happiness.
That's it!
What makes
Him
Lovable
Is
His holiness.
Turning Madness Into Flowers #1
If my sorrow were deeper
I'd be, along with you, under
the ocean's floor;
but today I learn that the oil
that pools beneath the ocean floor
is essence
residue
remains
of all our
relations
all
our ancestors who have died and turned to oil
without our witness
eons ago.
We've always belonged to them.
Speaking for you, hanging, weeping, over the water's edge
as well as for myself.
It is our grief
heavy, relentless,
trudging
us, however resistant,
to the decaying and rotten
bottom of things:
our grief bringing
us home.
The Tree Of Life Has Fallen
The tree of life
has fallen on my small house.
I thought it was so much bigger!
But it is not.
There in the distance I see the mountains
still.
The view of vast water stretching before me
is superb.
My boat is grand and I still command the captain
of it; not having learned myself to sail.
But I am adrift
without my tree of life
that has fallen heavy
without grace or pity
on this small place.
For the departing dictator, in perpetuity.
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