The Friction of Existence

Looking down
the tunnel of time—
the vision inevitably hits
the mirror of mortality.

The reflection returns.

Chaos ensues.

 

The Missing Flat-Bottomed Cup

The Airbnb was fine,
but it lacked
the small plate heater
and the flat-bottomed mug
that draws in the heat,
letting me savor
a single cup of Earl Grey
over the course of a morning hour.

It is good
to be back home.

 

Long After, I am Gone

The world will not stumble.
The stars will keep their fire,
and the music—
the music will go on
playing in the room
long after
I am gone.

 

Two Manners of Flitting

In the garden,
a butterfly hovers
over a flower—

maybe a second or two
before moving on
to the next.

It moves in search of
life-nourishing nectar.

Me,
I do not know
for what purpose

my mind flits
from one thought
to the next.

 

The Refresh

Looking for something
to hang itself on,
the restless mind
reaches for the screen
to check the inbox,
count the impressions,
or tally the thumbs up.

Would a self
truly peaceful within
feel the urge
to do so again,
and again,
and again?

 

Victims of Impermanence

Two days ago
you said you loved me.

Today,
you avoid my eyes.

The friction will pass,
but until then,
we remain
victims of impermanence.

 

Handling the Last Bite

Look out for the flicker
that arrives with the last bite—
the mind reaching
for one more.

Those few seconds,
if not handled with care,
become restraint’s
demise.

 

A Collection of Verbs

Life is always aspiring
to build a collection of verbs
so as to define itself—

achieving, acquiring, winning,
proving, conquering, possessing—

everything except
just being
a Being.

 

The Salty Season of Summer

Shedding clothes
in the grey of winter
brings no warmth—
chills run through the skin,
making the body shiver
and passion
wither.

But summer—
summer carries the earthiness
and salty taste
of sweating bodies
sprawled heavy
across white linen sheets,
while a ceiling fan
whirs lazily above,
repeating its steady hymn—
make love,
make love.

 

A Boy on the Platform

The train pulled away,
carrying you in its belly
and belching black smoke,
leaving behind a throng
jostling on the platform.

I knew
it was the last time
I would ever see you.

Standing there, I hoped
that for a few miles
you might look out the window—
watching poles and trees zip by—

and trace my name
on the dirty glass
with a twinge of sadness.

A small gift
to validate my own.

 

Inward Country

When will we cross the border
into that inward country
where the self feels light—

liberated from the relentless
pursuit of next,

that monster
which must be continuously fed?

 

The Vortex of Happenings

A candle burns.
Time slips.
You and I
caught in the vortex of happenings
—oblivious to death.

 

The Old Age

A time for fewer
and softer
footsteps.

 

A Product of Noise

It is startling to realize
that we are searching for a signal,
living in a universe
—a product of noise.

 

136

One hundred thirty-six.
The fasting level
of morning sugar.

What would it have been,
I wonder,
if that cookie
hadn't magically floated
from the jar
and landed in my mouth—
savored,
just as I was
on my way to bed.

 

The Weight of Nothingness

We yearn for the moments
still as a pond,
no ripple of need,
no errand calling from the shore.

Yet when they arrive,
the mind becomes a bird
beating inside a cage.

Trapped by nothing to do,
it searches for a stone
to break the surface.

 

To Be Still

A walk under the tall canopy
light shivering through the leaves,
in quiet, illuminated shafts,
shadows playing over the ground,
the soft crunch of leaves underneath.

In here,
the air is untroubled by ambition,
by striving for what comes next.

Maybe today,
the unease will loosen,
and the mind, no longer
a bundle of quantum jitters,
will learn
to be still.

 

Towards Wholeness

Mind, you are always reaching,
searching for another shape
to become.

Where would your striving end,
and where would living begin
as something that is whole?

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.