The Wayfarer
Penitent with a broken heart
I cross tumultuous rivers
clothes wet, sandals on hand,
a stick of repentance to steady me
for when I pass to the other shore
where torn leaves wait in silence
praying for the wind to lift them
to heaven. I kneel with the sisters
hoping for the good fortune of faith.
Leaving Paradise
Trees were everywhere
but the fig tree in the middle of the body
of the garden, was my favorite.
The air, sweet with bees and flowers
made me lose my mind.
I walked the enclosure barefooted
called the moon appearing on the horizon,
huge, pregnant with nectar
drank in a juvenal bacchanalia,
Bacchus looked on sitting on a barrel
guarding the wine, sipping slowly
infinite problems destined to remain unsolved.
Confused I stood by the gate,
ideas exited first, almost flying,
never touching the dust,
then feelings pushed each other
to cross the portal where senses crawled
trying to undo each other.
Rain bathed camelias and jasmine,
sweetness multiplied honeysuckle’s intensity.
I bit the base of its corolla, pulled pistils out
and suckled little balls of ambrosia for lunch.
It happened in March, in May, in June, in August,
which means, I was always drunk,
sheltered from the rain of misunderstanding,
the cold of loneliness,
but not the ruins of a future identical to itself.
Neither striving, nor laziness, not even
memory had any business being there.
One day, when the mood was right,
I opened the gate, and abandoned Paradise,
never to return.
The Mind
The light of the mind bright as it is, it is not
what I seek must be perennial pine trees,
bright green, sitting with like companions
in the temple of leaves, needles pungent,
sharp like swords ready to cut through
distractions, seductive thoughts, honey
of a flickering phone calling to engage
with a world of plenty unnecessary news.
It’s late, I tell my mind to be quiet,
I tell my mind to be still, so I can hear
the voice of the Beloved whispering.
What I hear is the body complaining,
lumbar vertebrae, scapula, cervical sprain,
every part clamors for complete attention.
A voice brings to mind that day when at 6
I was scolded for something I didn’t do,
also, what I should have responded
to that teacher in college who couldn’t
give me a deserved A. I catch myself
replying, try to stop a tsunami of thoughts
but, I fail, again, and as I straighten
my back, ask help from Heavens
wondering how will I be able to listen
with so much inner chatter.
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