FIFTY WORD STORY – Praying

I felt the tug of memory when I knelt to pray. The return of hope against the storm; I can feel its shield against the rains as they batter the church walls. A warmth that is not my own runs through my fingertips, up my elbows, and into my chest.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #104 – Patience

Patience

 

is like trying to hold my breath

beneath the mountain of water

that you poured over my body

because I couldn’t simmer down.

 

Take a look at my other poem based on the Heavenly Virtues: Temperance, Humility.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #102 – Words

Words

 

Words can be worthless

a waste of wind between the teeth;

a wash over the waterfall;

a weeping chasm of feelings.

 

Yet writ in your lips

are lines of a deeper language;

a labyrinth of layered inks

lingering in red on my cheek.

——

 

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Bread – A Poem

Bread

The body of the blessed

best known for being sold

to blasphemous souls

and barren stomachs,

 

but perhaps it is better served toasted

with a patch of jam spread thin

across the open face of kindness

ever as righteous as the King is reflects.

——

 

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FIFTY WORD STORY – Walking on Water

I balanced my feet above the water. The glistening pool seemed to beckon me in, but when I lowered my feet, I found the clear surface hard and defined. I pressed myself up and walked, splashing droplets around me as I stepped. Then, suddenly, I fell through to the bottom.

——

 

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LOVE POEM #86 – Sleeping / Waking

The peacefulness of a Buddhist

draws its way across your brow

beneath the wisps of blonde hair

that hide the blank expression on your face.

 

Then, with the flutter of your eyelids,

the materialism of your features fly back

like the flare of spring when Persephone

crossed the fiery steps of Hades back to Earth.

——

 

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Left at Home (and Other Haikus)

My Necklace

It’s not a burden

though the weight that it carries

could down a mule deer.

 

Skiing

The cut of white snow,

shifting beneath the black skis,

sharp as cool steel.

 

Tumbling

A twist of red pain

stabs through the knee like a knife

till it’s ripped away.

 

Still Water

Sparkling with stars;

disturbed in the calm blackness

by a moonlit fish.

 

Left at Home

The black dog is home

staring through the dark windows

thinking I’ve left him.

——

 

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MAKING FACES

Those parents who threatened me

that if I kept making faces,

my mouth would end up frozen

in a two-fingered grimace, forever

 

clearly never considered that the Buddha

has a smile that long outlived

all the pairs of uptights and unenlightened

who concentrated too much on his future.

——

 

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OUR LAST CAT (AND OTHER HAIKUS)

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Under the blue sky

an image blocks the sunlight:

“Eat like you mean it.”

 

Leisure

I sit cross-legged

drinking the inspiration

of fresh morning dew.

 

Crescendo

The drum of fingers

tap against the countertop

waiting for their cue.

 

Seeing Faces

A face in the grass

smiling in the windy air

blinks out of my sight.

 

Our Last Cat

He left deep gashes

in the memories of home

carved into the chairs.

——

 

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DEPARTURE

I was out on a walk through the city when my mind shifted between the membranes of existence. I had been looking at the crowds, breathing the air—both the fresh and the foul—and letting the tail ends of the trees brush through my fingers, just like any other person. Then, I was outside myself, looking down on everything else. Not as a god, but a hopeless observer. My body was still moving below; still enjoying the views and smiling at passers by, and I could feel it’s every movement and ache within myself. But my eyes had left this world. I was out over the clouds, looking down at my own personal globe of reality.

I turned the vision, and saw the whole mass of people on earth. For months, I followed them around, growing further and further from my body each day. It wasn’t long before I lost connection to it altogether, and had to track it down myself, instead of just feeling its movements. By that time, I was beginning to grow bored with my new world. Being an observer is hard.

The people below don’t even think about what they are doing. They go about their days, listening to iPods, working mindlessly, and ignoring nearly everyone else. Many of these people go home, look up to the sky, and hope for something to change, but never take the first step to do so. The more they talked, the less I listened. They weren’t all like this, some brave souls tried to explain the problems to the youth, but too often it was too late for them too. Eventually, I found myself more interested in the flowers and the trees than people.

I could follow the roots, below the ground, and watch as they sucked the water from the dirt. I could track the petals as the fluttered through the sky. I would try to console the wilting plants, neglected by their owners, before they washed away into the earth and became part of the collective again, but the truth is they never heard me. I could dive down with the fishes, and see in the dark. The bottom of the ocean is more quiet than the biggest caves. The creatures down there don’t move so fast. They drift, like wood on the surface, wherever the unseen current would take them.

I could even slip between the rocks, and watch the long conversations they had. One day, while I was listening to them, I felt a tug at my soul. First it was light, like a child pulling blankets in the night, but then it began to pull harder, and I felt myself flying through the world. Faster and faster, until I couldn’t even see where we were going. I tried to dig in, to grasp at my globe, but the force pulled me along. Then, as quickly as it started, it all stopped again. I awoke with a start, in my bed, as if from a nightmare. It was dark in my room. I moved to the doorway without even thinking, and flicked the light switch. I was home again. I was back in my body. My heart began to race. I didn’t want to go back. It was so boring here. I climbed back into bed, hoping to escape in the sanctuary of dreams, and fell asleep.

——

 

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