24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Exhausted from the debate
From the not-knowing
From the never knowing —
Her questions were too much
And their answers never enough.
So
She chose to enter eternity
Sooner rather than later.
Rest, my friend.
Rest now,
And for eternity.
(for my friend N)
– A Lesson –
A New Parable of the Buddha
Three mornings in a row, the Buddha sat
and sipped his tea beneath the banyan tree.
He waited for the coming of the thought
that would define this way, this life. What’s more,
his expectation was that he would know
not just the answers but the questions that
had baffled men for centuries. You see
he wasn’t born with wisdom. He was not.
But nothing came and though his mind, a store
of eagerness, cried out, he’d naught to show.
Just then a child sat by him with a toy,
Though the child smiled wide, the toy was broken.
He sat it in the sage’s lap and said,
“The only questions are the words unspoken.”
Seeking sun and sand and salty water,
wanting all three in reach.
I took a drive to the coast,
to spend a day at the beach.
Wanting time on my own, a desire to be all alone.
I grabbed a towel, took a book, packed a yogurt and a peach.
Had it all for my day at the beach.
I nestled myself in the shade, ate the small lunch I had made.
The towel kept me from the sand, the book distracted me from the water,
the rented umbrella blocked out the sun.
It seemed that life was full of avoidance tactics, choices keeping me from my stated goal.
There I sat wanting to be alone with several hundred others who may have wanted the same.
Dusk fills the darkening azure sky as the sun descends behind the horizon. The girl ceases her skipping through the field. Grass comes up to her waist as she leaps. Sitting upon a log, the boy watches as she raises her enclosed fist. He tilts his head and rests his chin on his elbow. The cool breeze rustles her copper hair, but her gaze is pointed down and not at him. And then, from within her palm, deep golden light emerges. Little dots trail out from between her fingers and float towards him. He lifts one index finger to lightly tap one of the luminescent citrine spots. The tiny insect flutters away from him on delicate, filmy wings, leaving behind a zig-zag trail of gold.
Some people wonder what eternity
looks like.
I have seen it:
A squat, Mission style building,
adobe red and boxy,
huddling beneath
black, fleecy Florida clouds.
Into paneless windows
and across silent halls,
palm trees sigh breaths
no lungs will ever know.
Torches seethe outside,
less tiki and more gaslight,
hissing at wandering spirits
that flicker in and out
of oily shadows.
Fat and yellow,
the moon rages,
too bright for its size,
too small for its significance,
too important for its function.
It does not know it merely reflects,
an echo of what was,
passive and impotent
like the spirits
lurching through eternity.
In response to this image:
This night, as the air is dark
The house sits still and I go back
I’m back on the street with you
Tears are soaking my face
You pull me in for one last kiss
And you leave.
That night, as I was alone
The house seemed to crush me, no breath
I cried you a river
Ate chocolate ice cream alone
It hits me like a wall that you’re gone
This is it.
All those nights, as I tossed and turned
The house cold and hallow, my heart pained
I wanted o forget you, yet, hold you
Everyday a struggle to keep busy
To be happy and live without you
I just can’t.
This night, as the air is dark
The house sits still and you wake me
I’m in the bed, next to you
Your heavy breath familiar and safe
I rest my head on your chest
You are mine.
Eternity Now
Darkness emits its own light
Pregnant in the womb of eternity
Self-luminous life now
Traverses its destiny
Consuming time itself
Resolutely … absolutely
Death is certain
For the grassroots are ripe
And smaller hopes destroy bigger hopes.
Hour 3
Worried winds push me away
How to catch up with the day
Exhilarating risk wells in heart
I will fight bravely for my art
Fire dances from his fingertips,
laughter crackles from his throat
and l am drawn, a fool to his flame.
when I wake, I am scorched,
a prisoner wrapped in darkness,
without stars to light the way.
– s.j.duncan –