Postcard from Choir Rehearsal

Rehearsal going great so far. Took a few days
to settle in, but feels great
being on the high C’s again.

Weather lovely, tho with occasional
gusts of hot air from the bass section.

See stage on front of card, my riser marked with X.

Shouldn’t have come at the height of the tourist season, tho—
srsly, this place crawling with altos.

Wish you were here (need more tenors)!

Love,
mi mi mi mi mi

The Lullaby in the Hullabaloo, or: The Hullabalullaby

“‘Christmastime with Mister Rogers’ is a quiet show. It is a kind of lullaby, dropped in the middle of the hullabaloo.”
— Bangor Daily News, December 16, 1977

When a hullabaloo
is your worst bugaboo
and bamboo is tickling your nose,
and the kangaroo bites
while the cockatoo lights
up a barbecue under your toes,

that’s when Lorelei’s lullaby
lilts to us lovingly,
lulling all passersby longing to snore,
where wallabies wallow
in all-hallowed hollows,
and the butterflies follow to sleep on the shore.

So play peekaboo
in the rannygazoo,
but then sing to those lumbering pests
of the horrible apple pie
hullabalullaby
that brings us a slumbering rest.

Saraswati

Once every day
your mouth becomes a shrine

The Goddess resides there
for a few moments
makes herself at home
feeds her swan
tunes her vina
listens to your words
and gives them the gift of truth

Keep this space holy for her

Say that you are full of poetry and wisdom
Say that you are a river purifying all you touch
Say that you love God

Say these things until they are true

Romance of the Wind and the Flute

(Title inspired by Romance de Viento y Quena.)

“What can I give you?” said the wind to the flute,
as he blew through the market square,
“When for all that I touch, there’s naught I can hold—
a wind’s wealth is nothing but air.

“The spices of India, flowers’ perfume,
all fade by the time I arrive.
With nothing to carry to lay at your feet,
tell me, how can I make our love thrive?”

“I need none of that,” said the flute to the wind,
as she sat in the market stall.
“Flowers and spices mean nothing to me—
just a kiss, and that will be all.”

So his breath became hers and her voice became his,
and each heart sang to its twin,
of the time that the wind fell in love with a flute,
and a flute fell in love with the wind.

The Last Wise Man

I have no gold to crown Him King,
I have no frankincense, no myrrh.
I cannot bring Him anything
that Lord or Baby might prefer.

But still I have my place in line,
behind those Three who went before,
and many thousands since besides,
who spread their offerings on His floor.

What they have brought I cannot see—
what gems, what fine and noble deeds,
what eloquence of poetry
to pray through strings of jeweled beads.

And here am I—my hands are full
of nothing good that I can see.
Poor possessions, few and dull
accomplishments, a broken knee,

a mood that’s unpredictable,
a few bad habits, wandering thoughts…
but something irresistible
won’t let me turn away. I cross

the threshold. Here the light of day
shines from a cradle, showing me
what gifts are tucked amidst the hay,
there for Him and me to see.

And all of them in Truth appear,
what gold and jewels cannot hide,
what royal gifts beyond compare:
a thousand hearts, with mine beside.

Take a Breath

I spend March 31st inhaling.

The morning sunlight
thundering down on the windowsill,
the skipping mandolin
notes sparkling gold,
the taste of a cloud’s slow
pirouette through the sky,
it all becomes breath,
it all becomes me

until I become breath,
and breath becomes words,
and words flow out in a great exhalation of poetry
the length of April.

Miscellaneous Rubaiyat

[On reading alternately The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam and The Bhagavad Gita.]

Each day begins the same as those before:
With meditation, sometimes less or more.
But ere the Dawn has opened up the sky,
I’ve always knocked against the inner Door.

What seems to be the truth turns out to be
The outermost of bodies—one, two, three!—
That in the earthly, astral, causal planes
But veil and hide the Truth—and That is me!

No matter what is given me to do,
My ego tries to grasp and bend and skew
It to itself as though my very Pow’r
To do at all did not descend from You.

How can I find You in the Summer’s heat?
In Winter’s cold? In dust beneath my feet?
How can these pains exist when in Thy Grace,
All worries, pains and fears taste only sweet?