The Unmade Bed
Throughout history and even last Thursday,
some very wise people
have asked some very powerful questions, like
"Is there a God?" and
"How did the universe begin?" and
"What is the sound of one hand clapping?"
just to name a few.
This morning, after waking up and having my coffee,
I asked yet another:
"Why make my bed?"
I mean, really, why?
After all, I'm just going to get back into it later tonight,
I'm not married, so my wife won't mind,
no friends will be coming for dinner later,
so they won't think
I don't care enough about them to make my bed.
and besides, there are a lot of unmade things in my life --
my mind, for example.
When it comes right down to it, I don't always know
what I'm going to do next --
and that is not necessarily a bad thing.
My plans for next week, for example, only partially exist,
and a lot of my poetry, with its various sheets,
blankets and pillows going this way and that,
is not exactly in place --
at least not yet.
And hey, didn't the universe begin out of chaos
with all those swirling nebulae still not fully formed,
so why make my bed, eh?
And come to think of it, I like the way I feel
when I walk past my bed wondering if it's OK
for me to go an entire day without making it.
I like the dance of opposites inside me
either getting in step or not --
me moving towards the living room
or still not sure where to go.
But please don't get me wrong, I beg you --
my sheets are clean, they really are,
I washed them just last week
and the sunlight entering my bedroom window
somehow still finds its way
past the curtains to my bed.
Candles
Where I live,
just a few blocks from the river
and a stone's throw from the post office,
there are many candles scattered about,
on tables and shelves, in drawers and bags,
tall ones that are not supposed to drip, but do,
thick, long-lasting ones that I bought on sale
whose wicks break off
or double back into the wax,
and then, of course,
there are the tea lights, many to the bag,
those small circular blasts of radiance.
All of the above and more are in my home
for what, it seems, will likely be the final chapter of my life,
the golden years, the time
when the end is near or soon to be,
Amen.
I have been noticing,
these slow, leaf-changing days of autumn,
that I too rarely light the candles in my home,
assuming they are, somehow, for special occasions,
a holiday, perhaps,
or the times I invite my friends for dinner,
wine being poured,
flowers arranged,
Pachebel or Bill Evans taking us deeper
into the place where nothing needs to be said.
It makes no sense,
no sense at all,
me waiting for some other time,
God looking through my dark eyes
and singing "Let there be light."
This is the moment!
This is my Sabbath!
This is the day of celebration!
All my guests are here, disguised as empty space,
as I reach for the book of matches on the shelf
and read the book of life
in the flickering flame.
SITTING ON A BENCH BY THE RIVER AT DUSK
I sit on a bench by the river at dusk
like millions of people have done before me
and millions will do again when I'm gone.
The river, flowing slowly as it likes to do,
will never read this poem,
though it does offer a shimmering surface
for people in boats to float by.
These people will also never read this poem
and that is just fine with me.
I am not writing this poem for them,
I am writing this poem for you,
though there is an excellent chance
you and I have never kissed, held each other, or even met
which is also fine with me, both of us
already having a lot of wonderful people in our lives --
more people than rivers I might add,
including the old man we pass on the street
once or twice each week and smile
though we do not know his name.
I like sitting by the river, watching the ducks,
and the way the color of the water
changes darkly as the sun goes down.
I like watching the large grey house
on the other side of the river,
the one with two big maple trees in front
and who knows how many families have lived there before
and how the gutters are holding up.
Look, to my right!
Here comes a young couple holding hands!
They sit down on the park bench next to mine
and talk about something, though I cannot tell you what.
Her dress is white.
Two seagulls make their way across the sky.
The clouds are also white.
Just a few inches in front of my eyes
many gnats are dancing,
not one of them leaves formation to bother or bite me.
They make no sound,
not like tonight's last motorboat
heading up river,
not like the silence now ringing in my ears
like the pauses in a symphony
I will never write.
The Tree of Life
I am laying here alone in my bed tonight,
or should I simply say "I am" --
the where or when being secondary
to the undeniable fact
that the paper I now find myself writing on
used to be a tree.
Birds once sang in its branches,
in the winter it stood naked,
in the summer it gave shade.
This tree that is now my book
had big green leaves and small white flowers.
When the wind blew through them,
you could almost hear the sound of forever.
This is the Way of the World
It is Sunday.
I am sitting here
on a wooden bench
watching the ripples of the Hudson River
and some rocks and trees.
The sun, 93 million miles behind me,
is making it easy to see
my own shadow on the path
between the river and me
as well as the movements of my pen
on my notebook fishing for words.
A motorboat goes by,
but none of the clouds overhead.
Somewhere on planet Earth
someone is taking their last breath
and someone is taking their first,
someone is getting married
and someone is getting divorced,
someone is making a fortune
and someone is losing theirs.
This is the way of the world:
now you see it, now you don't.
Here comes another motorboat,
there are two people in it waving at me.
It is moving much more slowly
than the other one
only minutes ago.
All I'm Doing Right Now
All I am doing right now is writing these words to you,
small helium-filled balloons
I offer for all those birthdays I missed.
I really don't know where these balloons will take you,
it all depends on you --
the way you hold the string
(or maybe there is more than just one string).
Well, of course there is more than one string --
we're talking about balloons,
multiple, not singular.
lighter-than-air-transportation devices.
They may seem to be words, but they are actually balloons.
Go for the ride!
Wherever you end up is the right place to be.
It is! And you are!
Always remember that
and the way butterflies move in a breeze,
and, please tell me, kind madam or sir,
how in the world did butterflies ever get created in the first place
and am I still expected to pay my taxes?
What if I forget my name and wherever I go
gardenias spring up all around me,
hoping as only gardenias can hope,
that one day the one they call the "Master"
will find his way there for no particular reason at all,
he being completely "of the moment" or perhaps I should say
(and please forgive me if I mess up the translation,
but it goes a little something like this:)
"You were made in the image of God.
You were, you are,
of that you need not have any doubt.
As you are you are."
How great is that!
"As you are you are."
I may have to make a t-shirt with those words on it.
Nothing has to change with you!
You don't need to get better
or work smarter or be worthy of anything.
As far as I can tell, you are worthy of EVERYTHING,
though it's always useful to
remember George Carlin's perspective:
"If you had everything, where would you put it?"
And now, one last thing before I take my leave:
the best book I've read in quite a while is
Hear Yourself: How to Find Peace in a Noisy World
by Prem Rawat.
So much love! Heaps. Tons. Buckets full.
What Rumi, Hafiz, Mirabai, Kabir, and you,
on a good day are plugged into full-tilt boogey,
walking the high road home.
Welcome to the fountain of laughter and tears, my friends,
welcome to remembering and forgetting
and then remembering again,
opening like a lotus
or a clenched fist
or a window.
And with that, dear brothers and sisters,
daughters and sons, wizards, fools, home run hitters,
flash back Frankies, and little Joey from Brooklyn, I take my leave.
Yo, Joey, how did you find your way into this poem?
Wait, don't tell me. I know why. I really do.
This massive, bodacious love and presence is who and what you are.
How could you be anywhere else?
Welcome Frankie! You da man!
Praise the Lord! And praise the praisers, too!
There Is a Poem in Here, Somewhere
When I was barely 22,
a bearded graduate student
at an Ivy League university in New England,
I met with my poetry advisor
one fine autumn day,
both of us wishing we were somewhere else,
perhaps a small fishing village in Portugal
or a smoky jazz club in New York.
I showed him my poem,
a one-pager on onion skin paper
and waited for his dim murmur of praise.
"There's a poem in here, somewhere," he said,
not quite shaking his head, but wanting to.
"No," I replied, "this IS the poem,"
but he, having long ago
lost interest in his wife, persisted.
Now it is 55 years later
and I finally understand what he meant.
Yes, for sure,
there is a poem in here somewhere,
a poem within a poem
and another within that
until the only thing that remains
is my impulse to write
and the sound of a bird
outside my half-opened window,
or is it the creaking of my chair
as I stand to exit the room?
THE QUESTION
Do I take a breath or does it take me?
Then again, does it really matter?
When I am with you, my Friend,
questions do not exist,
just the space from which they arise
and the feeling of fulfillment.
Here's as simple as it gets:
nothing is happening
and so is everything.
both at the same time,
someone is born,
someone dies
and someone writes this poem.
Just a few minutes ago,
at gate C-12 in the Dubai Airport,
a small child left her mother's lap
and handed me a single potato chip.
Just one.
It was a feast.
Before the hour ends,
I will board a plane for a very long flight,
but I am already home.
MILKWEED
Have you ever seen a puff of milkweed floating by
on your way to somewhere
or other?
Lighter than air it seems to be,
imported from a dream.
It catches your eye
and you,for the moment,forget
where you're going and where you have been,
nothing in the world mattering in the least.
And so, you reach,
wanting only to hold the milkweed in your hand,
but as you do (and have done many times before)
the wind of your reaching
only pushes it further away.
More reaching for it does not help,
nor does doing nothing at all.
And then, if you're lucky,
the holy grail of your own breath
finds a way to position your hand in space before you,
exactly where the milkweed
is just about to go.
A SIX-PACK of KABIR
THREE POEMS WRITTEN LAST NIGHT in KUALA LUMPUR, WAITING for PREM RAWAT'S 5-DAY CONFERENCE to BEGIN on JULY 8th.
#1
There is something that cannot be said
and I am not saying it.
If I try to whisper it into your ear,
please slap me,
I really have no idea what I'm talking about.
#2
I once wrote a poem that no one read.
No one read it because I wrote it on a leaf
and sailed it down a river with no name.
How I got there is a complete and utter mystery to me.
All I know is this:
somewhere a fish is eating my words.
#3
I just drank a 6-pack of Kabir.
Perfectly chilled it was, no glass needed.
None.
I drank straight from the bottle like a baby.
I'm told the bottles will be recycled --
that they're worth something,
but I don't believe it.
Why should I?
After drinking Kabir tonight, there's nothing left to believe --
just imbibe.
I AM SITTING HERE
I am sitting here,
both empty and full,
at home in the space
between in breath and out --
a place with no name
and no need for one.
Dream though it is,
what I feel in this moment
is more real
than anything or anyone
I know,
a bubbling up from within,
an arrival,
a coming home.
Here in this field of pure delight
every river that has ever
found its way to the sea
disappears
into the secret chamber of my heart.
Time stops.
Space, too.
Silent and content,
I am a child
just before learning to speak,
stunned, present,
moved only
by a still forming
impulse to praise.
There's a Poem Here Somewhere
When I was barely 22,
a bearded graduate student
at an Ivy League college in New England,
I met with my poetry advisor,
one fine autumn day,
both of us wishing we were somewhere else,
perhaps a small fishing village in Portugal
or a smoky jazz club in New York.
I showed him my poem,
a one-pager on onion skin paper
and waited for his dim murmur of praise.
"There's a poem in here, somewhere," he said,
not quite shaking his head, but wanting to.
"No," I replied, "this IS the poem,"
but he, having long ago
lost interest in his wife, persisted.
Now it is 55 years later
and I finally understand what he meant.
Yes, for sure,
there is a poem in here somewhere,
a poem within a poem
and another within that
until the only thing thatremains
is my impulse to write
and the sound of a bird
outside my window,
or is it the creaking of my chair
as I stand to exit the room?
The Mirror
There are times late at night
when I want someone
to look into the mirror of who I am
and see themselves clearly.
I'm not exactly sure why this is so,
other than the feeling
of two people realizing
there are actually
only one of us here.
Whatever happens after that
is gravy.
I LIVE NEXT TO THE POST OFFICE
I live next to the post office
in a one-bedroom apartment
just three blocks from where Mike Tyson
trained to become the heavyweight champion of the world.
If I turn right and walk all the way to the end of the street,
I arrive at my favorite cafe
where I drink coffee, eat chocolate and laugh.
If I turn left, I end up at the river.
There I sit on a park bench and do nothing.
Children and dogs walk by,
ducks quack,
and the ripples of the river,
ever so slightly,
rise and fall.
This Thirst
Some spoken word by yours truly
I HAVE A GERMANIUM
I have a geranium,
or maybe it has me,
sitting there as it does
at the far end of my kitchen table
like a Buddha,
its tight buds
just beginning to open,
completely indifferent
to whether or not
anyone else is in the room.
Two Kinds of Poetry
There are some poems
that are nothing more than thoughts,
the kind of packaging you might
find around your house
after a quick visit to the mall
where lots things you didn't really need
you bought.
Then there are poems that sanctify
the celebration of pure feeling,
what lovers experience
on a lazy day
after a long, slow embrace
when they find themselves
wordless,
and dancing on the ceiling.
I FEEL A POEM COMING ON
I feel a poem coming on,
not like a cold,
more like a warm,
an unexpected visit from an old friend
whose name I do not know
but can always tell when she is drawing nigh --
there's a kind of perfume in the air,
a scent,
a sensing like a dog,
that his Master has turned for home.
Not having a tail, I'm not really sure
what it is I wag,
but there is definitely something
moving inside me.
Here's the Problem with Reading Rumi
Here's the problem with reading Rumi:
There's a very good chance you will never come back,
which might, of course, be fine for you, oh seeker of light,
but what about the person you are most committed to
here on planet earth? Won't they feel abandoned,
you having disappeared without a trace
your body now a shadow,
your heart having exploded into a thousand pieces,
each one a seed to populate another world?
What about THAT person, the one you
share your hopes and dreams with,
the one who holds you late at night?
If this, perchance, is what concerns you, my friend,
simply tell your partner this:
My darling, I would love you like my own self if I knew who I was,
I would sing to you each day,
which is why I read Rumi, the pied piper of my soul,
and why I breathe.
You and I are more than a couple, my dear,
we are couplets in a greater poem,
each one a moving line with its own rhythm and internal rhyme,
expressions of the ancient quest for love
now made greater by each other,
why I come home to you at night,
why you come home to me,
and time stops,
why I must forgive myself daily for forgetting
just how utterly divine you are, sweet bee to the honey of my life,
the endless sky I soar deeper into,
stretching my wings beyond what I think is possible,
and it's all Rumi's fault.
Blame him!
I had nothing to do with it.
Nothing.
There Is a Poem Within This Poem
There is a poem within this poem,
what lovers have no need to say to each other,
late at night, ecstatic, in each other's arms.
I offer this poem to you, my friend,
perfume from the secret chamber of my heart.
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