When Boundaries Fade

Cultivate a quiet union
where the boundary
between self and world
dissolves.

In that stillness,
life and death
unfold as one continuum—
our passing
no more than the act
of stepping through
a door.

When Striving Ends

One day I may realize
I have achieved enough—
and whatever else
I choose to reach for
will matter
no more.

On that day,
perhaps at last,
life will be
content.

Contentment

There is a warm glow
in living the life
one desires.

Should We Add or Should We Subtract?

Crossing a mile
on an open road—
is it added,
or subtracted
from life’s
odometer?

Days in Caicos

It was a time
when moments felt ample,
fluid--and friendly;
when we drifted
with the cotton clouds,
unconcerned
with destinations.

Impermanence

Moments of clarity,
of being briefly aligned;
effervescent bubbles
in a glass of Dom Pérignon—

both transcendental,
both impermanent.

Never Quite Here

What comes next
on the long list of doing,
while hands keep
washing greasy dishes—

that small question
quietly becomes
our life’s story.

 

When the Surf Breaks Unevenly

On the left side of the beach,
there is a first Christmas—
a newborn daughter,
wrapped in gifts
she cannot yet appreciate.

On the right,
a friend with lung cancer
is hoping
to make it
to the month of
January.

Perhaps Nothing

What is next?
the mind asked.

Perhaps nothing—
came back
the reply.

A Diabetic’s Remorse

The chocolate dissolved slowly on my tongue,
the caramel-glazed cheesecake
caressed my lips.

They felt heavenly,
almost orgasmic.

I will pay the price—
for those moments of surrender.

Returning the Loan

Across the street—
on the wrap-around porch—
a rocking chair sways gently—
holding the outline
of someone
who chose to return
the borrowed atoms.

Primordial Questions

Purpose and meaning—
meaning and purpose—
which came first,
which after?

Birth and death—
death and birth—
which came first,
which after?

Consciousness and Reality—
Reality and Consciousness—
which came first,
which after?

Would the universe—
ever tell?
Or is silence
its only answer?

 After All the Searching

Tired of meandering
through the labyrinths of Mahayana,
and then trying the byways
of its sister city Hinayana—
all while stubbing toes
treading through the pages
of The Myth of Sisyphus

and the dense prose—

one day he arrived
at a road sign
that simply said:

“The purpose of life
is to live.”

Consciousness Dares to Ask

Being in a universe,
a speck of dust,
a fleeting spark
against the endless dark—

yet consciousness
dares to demand:
Why?
Why is it here?

The Curves They Remember

I trace the soft contours of your memory—
with my trembling fingers—
knowing they will catch on edges,
be cut,
and bleed—again—

and yet—
they yearn to feel the curves
they once traced before.

Do Not Ask for Meaning

Do not ask the stars for meaning—
nor barter with gods to know
what purpose they had in mind
when they created, and then—
let us go.

Now—standing in this emptiness—
shape your meaning with your hands.
And when it all comes to an end—
let the wind carry what remains;
for there will be none left of this body
but a few sandy grains.

The Emptiness That Surrounds Us

In the end,
we do not solve the riddle
why an emptiness surrounds us—
we become it.

Distant, Yet Close

The stars are far;
their ashes,
they sing in my bones.

We Sat in the Love Seat

The van pulled over at noon.

A woman in the driver’s seat—
her face a creased, from pulling some miles—
opened the van, wrestled the furniture
from its dark belly.

Her arms were thin,
struggling to hold the weight
of our needs—and our wants.

She shifted the boxes to a dolly,
rolled it over the pavement—
then lifted them again,
left them at our door.

We stood there, thinking—
that this delivery
is the gateway to something bigger…
that our rooms, our moments, our love
might finally find their grace;
they would no longer dangle
from the precipice—
always threatening to come undone.

We got to the task
of assembling pieces together,
and we thought—
it would be easy.

Six hours passed.
It turned out to be
much harder than we had imagined—
screws resisting,
panels refusing to fit in slots,
often requiring the soft persuasion of a mallet
(which the manual had failed
to mention).

As the daylight drained,
we finally sat on what we had assembled—
our arms aching, minds wondering:
is this really the magic to cure
what ails us?

Lost in our thoughts—
we sat huddled
in the love seat together.

 

"I grieve for myself...

...and for the life I used to have.”

The words appeared beneath a photograph in The New York Times, telling of a woman in Gaza who had lost her parents to war and now carried a scar etched across her face—a permanent reminder of an explosion that rewrote her life. That single sentence spoke of a world shattered beyond recognition, a life that might once have known the quiet grace of sitting beneath a hundred-year-old olive tree, reading a book of verse. But that scene will never be painted.

Those words traveled across oceans and found their way to the gates of our quiet 55+ community, where we do our best to shield ourselves from the cruelties of war, from hunger, from the harsh edges of humanity. We manicure gardens, play cards, and cling to the illusion that life, here, will remain untouched.

For a few moments, we will grieve for her and the countless others whose lives were dismantled simply because they were born in the wrong fragment of space and time. Yet, if we are honest, our grief is weightless. It offers no consolation. Our thoughts cannot cross the seas to become the balm their wounds cry out for.

And so, we continue to live in our cocoons. We seek shelter. But what walls can keep out the quiet inevitability that shadows us all—aging, frailty, mortality? Perhaps the greater tragedy is not that cruelty stalks the earth, but that we might arrive at life’s final threshold burdened by the same haunting refrain:

“I grieve for myself and for the life I had.”

Not because war or famine stole it from us, but because we lived as if time were infinite. Because we mistook comfort for meaning. Because, in the end, our lives were small, they were inconsequential when they could have been vast, expansive, and perhaps, alive.