She sits undisturbed
Shakyamuni by her side.
You can wave at her, she
will pay you no mind.
You cannot grasp her mind
and maintain a hold
on your own, you will grow
deaf from the chatter
but a child can curl
at her feet and she
will stroke his forehead
in perfect Samadhi.
A reflection on Case 42 of the Mumonkan (Gateless Gate)
Twisted strands
tell a strange story –
acid, a trip you never
intended to take –
amino pairs
that walk you
into a world
that is yours alone
and universal,
a foreign place
you now must
call home.
It’s odd how your stature
has grown as I dream of you
occasionally staring at
your yearbook picture.
It was only four years ago
that I knew you existed, but
hadn’t the faintest idea of who
you were, anything about your life,
why you gave me up, and, therefore
who it was I might have been.
Now you are a selfless icon, caring
more for siblings who needed education,
at the immediate cost of your own,
a child who needed two parents
in a world that frowned deeply
on anything less than a pair.
Someday soon, I will visit your grave,
place a small stone upon your stone,
and a kiss, the closest
I can ever hope, ever dream
to coming to the face of my mother.
A three year old
can easily understand
that a full cup
can hold nothing
but an empty cup
has an infinite capacity.
You should walk slowly,
measure each step, insure
your foot is in deep contact
with the earth before
giving its partner freedom,
only to fall victim,
in turn, to gravity.
Steady your pace
until it merges
into your breath
and the silence
deafens you.
A three year old
can easily understand
that a full cup
can hold nothing more
but an empty cup
has an infinite capacity.
Mrs. Schwarting lived in a small cottage.
Mrs. Schwarting taught piano in her living room.
Mrs. Schwarting had no first name, even
checks were to be made payable to “Mrs. Schwarting.”
Mrs. Schwarting grew suddenly old, some said,
to fully fit into her name, no one could
remember her ever being young.
Mrs. Schwarting said I must always find Middle C,
that everything starts there.
Mrs. Schwarting was not pleased when I said
that Middle C was key number 40 on my piano
of the 88 that I carefully counted,
and there was no middle key, only
a gap between E4 and F4.
Mrs. Schwarting looked at me sternly
and ended my lesson early that day.
Mrs. Schwarting was a great teacher.
I think of her each time I sit down
and place the djembe between my knees.
