We arose from water,
crawled forth and inhabited the land
and claimed dominion
and the land appeared
to cede itself to us,
and caring even less.
We return to the water
feel its pull
but immerse ourselves
only partially, willing
to risk only half drowning,
the land and air
usually silent, knowingly
laugh for they know
that a fish
out of water
in a sea of air.
A commentary on a holy book
cannot hear one another.
Perhaps their deafness goes
beyond family and species.
It would do much
to explain God’s rejection
of Eve’s proffered excuse
that despite her protestations
and those of Adam
the snake would not
take no for an answer –
a deaf snake, after all
having spoken, has little
to do but move along
to the next monologue.
She said she
recalled the spilled
glass of wine that stained
her white linen blouse.
the city swallows people
like a hungry beast
that will never be sated.
I taste the summer sun
and the sweetness
of an early rain
in the Shiraz
The city is a cat
that curls by the lake
and purrs to
the gently rising moon.
She, who was once
very real, is now
little more than
a fading dream,
and I, the dreamer,
willingly cede that dream
to the wonder
of this moment,
“Be in the moment,” he says
repeatedly, imagining this
is what the teacher should say.
I want to tell him there is
no other possible moment
I could be in, but having to try
to find the words
instantly takes me out of this
and every other possible moment.
It is said that when the student
is ready, the teacher will appear.
I now seriously hope
the inverse is true, so I can
return to simply being in the moment
free of seeking what I know
cannot be found.
Each day he stops briefly
in the small park along the path,
and picks up a pebble which he tucks
in the coin pocket of his jeans.
There it rests until he comes
the pond where he sits on the shore
staring out into the heart of the water.
He pulls the pebble and tosses it
in a high arc, always trying to land it
in the center of the pond, where he
can watch the ripples slowly proceed
toward him, and hitting the edge,
echo back toward the center, diminished.
This morning he followed his pattern,
sat on the edge and let fly the pebble
which landed squarely, but this day
there were no ripples, just the mirror
still surface of the pond, and he
began the slow walk home, knowing
he would never visit this pond again,
for he was now on a very different path.
Each night I stare up at the sky, scanning
for the one star that is there solely
to answer whatever entreaties I choose to make.
It is said that we each have a lucky star,
but perhaps, given the ever-expanding population
of the world, mine is just too dim to see
from the city in which I live, or perhaps,
I simply haven’t found it, and addressing
someone else’s star brings you nothing,
not even thanks from the lucky soul
who won the big lottery last week
all at my urging, I mean how could I know
it was their star I addressed with my request,
it isn’t like they wear name tags after all.
Still, I don’t give up trying, though
I often swear that Orion and Cassiopeia
spend a portion of every evening together
just laughing their celestial asses off at me.
It is like emotions are something
you wear on your sleeve, he said,
picking at threads of sadness, trying
to pry them from the fabric
of the moment, never understanding
they were the warp of his existence,
joy and laughter, compassion
and empathy the weft.
She said, that is only
an illusion, and you know
that illusions are not real.
She held his hand, smoothed
the fabric, tucking away
the odd thread, hoping that he
wouldn’t pull at the selvage
and be forced to watch the
happiness of their relationship
unravel before her eyes.