On the Mount of Temptation

Twelve hundred feet up a sheer cliff,
through the winding passages
of a monastery carved into the rockface,
you come to a stone. A stone whose career
spanned forty days and forty nights,
two millennia ago,
and has not been sat on since.
A stone, complete with footrest
—that devil thought of everything!—
rising invitingly out of the solid mountain.
You yourself are shielded from the temptation,
by a considerate casing of glass,
leaving the holy seat secluded and unsullied.
Well, there are just some things
that you may travel the world to see,
only to find that someone else has decided
you still can’t touch them.
But your hand brushes the cool rock wall
on your way back down the twisting stairs,
rough-hewn edges worn smooth by the centuries,
and you enter the chapel, still encased
in the raw flesh of the mountain.
And there, beneath your palm,
throbs, slowly, an aeonic heartbeat,
a pulse that knows no difference
between cliff and wall and seat and stone,
between seeing and touching and blessing,
between itself and the planet it joins
a quarter mile below.
                                   And still
your fingers, even now, remember
how it felt when the temptations of the world
were traded for your soul’s desire.

Things That You Are

You’re the cat’s pajamas,
the bee’s knees,
the mullah’s llamas,
the elephant’s sneeze.

You’re the alpaca’s backpack,
the crocodile’s smile,
the jackrabbit’s flack jacket,
the peacock’s style.

You’re the snakes hips, the chicken’s lips,
the aardvark’s awkward birthmark,
the kipper’s knickers, the octopod’s ticklers,
the butterflies’ orange monarch.

You’re the toucan’s two cans of canned tuna fish,
You’re the delicatessen’s most delicate dish.

You’re the pepper’s doctor,
the mountain’s dew,
the koala’s cola,
the bear’s Irn Bru.

You’re the crème de la crème,
the sine qua non,
most fatale of the femme,
the c’est in c’est bon.

You’re the go in a tango,
the wing in a swing,
the dot in a polka,
the highest land’s fling.

You’re the bee in my bonnet,
the slice in my bread,
the rhymes in my sonnet,
the tune in my head.

Anything I can name that’s too good to be true
may be great, but it can’t hold a candle to you.

I Am Not

My name was Simon—“listen” in Hebrew—
and so I did, but listened with my heart.
I heard the subtle voice of Truth within,
upon which rock I became Peter.
And on that rock, perhaps, I let myself
recline too easily, that when it shook,
when I was told I would not—could not—follow,
I fell instead. I could not hear the Truth,
but now only my own, my outer, voice
felling that church as if it were mere stone.
“Are you that man’s disciple?” I am not.
Three times, and with every repetition,
I undo myself. Another piece of rock,
of my reality, crumbles away,
as I hear myself declaring I am not
the only thing I ever truly was.
Three times denying, withering, and dying,
three times, before the crowing of the cock,
recalling His words, breaks into my despair
to save me from myself, and all I find
that’s left of me is tears. But now how long,
how long must I remain what I am not
before I hear again, and know, I am?
Three lifetimes, even, must be insufficient
to rebuild from nonexistence. And yet, Three days,
He said. Destroy this temple, and in three days
I will raise it up again. What temple?
What temple is there left to be restored
but that within my heart? Where are the stones
that I can gather, that I can give to show
that Builder that, yes, I am still Peter,
when—as He must—when—oh, at last!—He comes?

Permeability

“[Poetry] makes us permeable.”
—Jane Hirshfield, interview, March 20, 2015

The more I sit still, the more I become
aware of how still it is impossible to sit.
My outer motions yield to a silent thrum
of atoms, each one spinning, embracing its
Einsteinian truth: energy subtler than air,
vibrating back and forth, into the space
occupied by the atoms of the chair
I sit in, such a rapid interlacing
that I can no longer tell where I end
and it begins, both of us melting into
atmospheric spheres of atoms, blending,
expanding, and I find myself sky-skinned,
Earth-footed, galaxy-eyed, exquisite—
a single cell throughout the infinite.

After the Dance

It’s the end of the evening, a lingering haze of sweat and laughter,
changing shoes and packing up instruments in a contented ache of feet and fingers,
and one of the dancers still dizzy says to me, “I love it when you stop playing!”
Now, I knew what he meant, and took the compliment—
any good piano player knows when to drop out and let the fiddles fly,
shucking off the bass notes that held them and the dancers to the ground,
and then the fiddles turn and drop an octave and the mandolin pops,
sprinkling sparklers over the packed floor flashing back in their eyes,
so that when the whole band finally crashes back in all that soaring kindling ignites
and the hall explodes into another breathless, fearless hour of dancing.
And I watch this fellow twirl off with his partner,
back to a life that was, for a few hours, suspended,
raised up into a space of fiery flight, spun about and transformed,
ready to crash back, breathless, fearless, and turn the world on its toes.

Yang-Yig

[Inspired by Tibetan Yang-Yig musical notation.]

This is your line.
It is a line in the red of your blood, the black of your eyes.
It is a line tracing one edge of the invisible space of your soul.
It is a line that maps your route from earth to heaven.
It is a line of grace.

Sing it like the moon crouching behind a cloud.
Sing it like a cloud filling the shape of a conch.
Sing it like a conch shell shouting the wind.
Sing it like the wind touching all the intimate earth.
Sing it like the part of the earth that became you.
Sing it like the piece of heaven you will become when you sing it.

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.

The Moth

flutter-
ing in the dark-
ness, trembling, only know-
ing that to find the light is worth
mere death

Underlined

The pathways of this book are numerous.
Though many times my eyes this way have passed
and not a word they found superfluous,
always I see new shoots that since my last
pilgrimage sprouted, ever-newly greening
and flowering over every faint impression
left by my mind, welcoming me with meaning,
freshness, and a clear grace beyond expression.
I mark my trails with pencil lines, with ink
in different colors every time I pass,
forming a map through words with lines that link
my mind to the bright purity of glass
whose sheen, it’s true, will my own face reflect,
while showing through to Truth, where all the lines connect.

Bad Nana

My name is Bad Nana, just look at me shoot,
I’m a grandma banana, and outlaw to boot.
Abscond and absquatulate, that’s how I steal,
The sheriff can’t hold me—I’m out on appeal.

Taverns and brawls, well, I’ve been in a bunch.
My right hook’s a doozy, and so’s my fruit punch.
Tussle with me and you’ll think it’s uncanny
This granny bananny done whupped your sweet fanny.

Whatever you do then, just don’t call me yellow—
I’ll turn you the shade of my pineapple jello.
I’ll carry on breakin’ the law til I’m dead,
A bandit I’m born, til banana I’m bread.

Back when I was green, terrorizin’ the West,
“Chiquita Bandita” was stitched on my vest.
Now men run and hide from my crocheted bandana,
In fear of Bad Nana, the Grandma Banana.

Bad Nana, courtesy of Curtis Boone.

Return

It’s too cold for April. The honey, seeking its warmer origins,
is crystallizing, reforming structured memories of honeycombs.
I, too, immobilize and turn inward, towards eternal Summer.
When the jar begins to buzz, I know it will soon be full of flowers.

The Allegory of the Alligator

Come sit and hear the story of the fearsome alligator—
An instructive allegory (I’ll explain what that means later).
But the first thing that you’ve got to learn is how to recognize one,
So let us our attention turn to the features that comprise one.

They are longer than they’re wide. Don’t believe me? It’s the truth!
And lest you think that I have lied, I’ll furnish you with proof.
We’ll need a box of crayons, a ruler, and some string,
And I’ll show you how to take on this great feat of reckoning.

All down its length and ’cross its width, an alligator’s green
(And green’s the color of envy—it’s what makes a gator mean).
But width it has in just one way, and that’s from side to side,
So now we know that we can say it’s greener than it’s wide.

And next its length you can assess from bottom or from top,
But the green you’ll see is somewhat less, and at the belly stops.
Therefore now some wizard could deduce what you’ve not seen:
That this bayou-dwelling lizard is much longer than it’s green.

Now then there’s this attribute of inequality
Which helps us to compute the reptile’s transitivity,
By which I mean the shape of this here alligator’s hide,
Being longer than it’s green is therefore longer than it’s wide.

But while you’ve been inspectin’ and a-measurin’, it’s true,
He’s gone and et you up of course, ’cause that’s what gators do.
So the moral of this story is—to the best of my belief—
Don’t mess with allegories, and watch out for their teeth!

Answers Without Questions

Hardly ever never, but sometimes always.
Eighty-nine at least, and twice on Sundays.
The square root of fifty, minus your bus fare.
Two cherries, three kumquats, one mango and a bear.
The year 1840 on the West coast of Panama.
201 Main Street, Broadmoor Heights, Omaha.
Every fifth Tuesday, except in April.
A hitherto unknown subspecies of maple.
From under two seconds to up to a month.
If blue, three or four, but the yellow ones once.
Home-grown rhubarb and the juice of an orange.
A little less paisley and a little more fringe.
You’d think so, yes, but it’s not really silver.
Porcupine petals and daffodil fur.
A word that appears in all prayers but no hymns.
Answers without questions, and titles without poems.

Pontius Pilate

What is truth? I knew before today,
Before this man that I have sent to death
Appeared before me. I have no love for Jews,
Nor ever feared them. What had I to fear?
Or what to love? And still I do not know,
But now I find the question troubles me.
And this man, Jew despised by other Jews,
He had no fear of me, and as for love,
I cannot say, and as for truth, he claims
It as his birthright. And were he not in chains
I do not know who I myself would be.
Chained there he stands, as if before my mercy,
Acknowledging my power over him,
As granted from above, and yet I know
He means not Caesar. In his eyes, a kingdom
Further removed from here than I can see,
Beyond my spirit’s compass to perceive.
How can a man judge what he cannot know?
The only guilt I found in him was this:
He gave me leave to name the truth myself,
When I, for the first time, am caught uncertain,
This strange permission reaching farther into
Authority than I have ever dared.
What is truth? Little enough I see.
I knew him for a Jew, for they were Jews
Who brought him to me. I knew him for a king,
For who could not? But all else I disclaim.
And so I ruled, and so I wrote the words
My prisoner permitted me to choose,
Proclaiming and condemning by my hand.
Therefore what I have written, let it stand.

Ghazal: To Shiva

And as I begin, I bow to Shiva.
May these lines soar, even now, to Shiva.

In darkness, delusion, despair or death,
look, through the light in your brow, to Shiva.

A mountain falling in love with the sky:
Parvati making her vow to Shiva.

Thou male-female, creator-destroyer,
single-duality: Thou Two, Shiva.

I could, like Ganesha, travel the world,
or cut to the chase, and bow to Shiva.

D.I.Y.—Destroy It Yourself, a book
not for dummies, titled: How To Shiva.

Om Namah Shivaya, I bow and sing,
my soul a transcendent shout to Shiva.

The end of life, the end of creation,
we will all return, somehow, to Shiva.

Tandava dancing, this music, this poem—
this life, an offering now, to Shiva.

The Owl

As the night falls, I rise.
I lift into the lowering skies,
And welcome the dark to fill my eyes.

Ablaze in flight,
I know the secret of the night:
That we are never wholly without light.

The Manatee

Oh, I once was a mermaid, with skin like white gold,
and a siren’s clear call floating up from the sea—
more beauty, young man, than your vision could hold,
when I was a mermaid. But now I’ve grown old.

You’ll find my skin wrinkled, encrusted and gray,
my bright silken hair scrubbed away by the brine.
All stubbled with whiskers, my lips are like clay,
and that’s what you see, when you see me today.

My movements are awkward, ungainly, and slow,
though once I cavorted and skimmed through the waves.
Now I’m swollen and bulging, above and below,
and that’s all there is to me, as far as you know.

I’ll sing no more songs now, for captain or crew,
so cast off and sail your gazes away.
I know very well what I look like to you,
but what does that matter? I know what is true.

The Three-Toed Sloth

I lounge in leafy luxury, atop my toothsome tree,
It’s luscious, yes, and languid, my arboreality.
For folivorous flavors I select amongst the best,
With suspended animation, I chew a bit, then rest.
Tri-dactylicly I clasp a branch, with bradypodal claws,
I lure the leaves down to my lips, then open wide, and… pause.

The Honeybee's Lullaby

Hush, little honeybee, fold your little wings,
And dream of flowers yellow bright, and other petaled things.
There’s honey in the hexagons and pollen in the pot,
And you shall rest among the riches all your folk have brought.

Quiet, little honeybee, still, and listen well
To the thrumming rustling murmurs that surround your little cell.
Hear now in their whispering your kindred’s constant theme:
A hum of adoration, for one day you’ll be queen.

An Ice Cream Hemiola

The ice cream’s here,
the time is now.
But I’m unclear,
my furrowed brow
betrays my tongue:
I know not how
to choose among
so many flavors.
Then you, spot-
-ting my behavior,
hatch a plot
and are my savior.

Our favorite three
of thirty-one
we both agree
on, then the fun
part, when we see
how quickly pass
three cones between
one lad, one lass.
By that I mean
that three for two
makes quite a scene,
with me, and you.