Oslo Opera House

winter’s
snowy slopes rise
in the height of summer,
singing back to operatic
seagulls

New Zealand Rain

The rain in
New Zealand
falls
surprisingly
downward.

The ground becomes
somehow
inexplicably
wetter
rather than dry.

This can only mean
one
thing:

Spring has Fallen.

Driving on the Left

Recite the mantra constantly: drive on the left,
(Please hold. Your brain has temporarily been blocked.)
The roundabouts can put your signals to the test,
I’m glad the pedals for the gas and brake aren’t swapped,

(Please hold. Your brain has temporarily been blocked.)
Watch approaching traffic coming from the right,
I’m glad the pedals for the gas and brake aren’t swapped,
Convert the speed limit — kilometers to miles,

Watch approaching traffic coming from the right,
Police have zero tolerance on speeding here,
Convert the speed limit — kilometers to miles,
Though mostly things are not as bad as I had feared,

Police have zero tolerance on speeding here,
At each intersection, windshield wipers wave,
Though mostly things are not as bad as I had feared,
I think we’ll possibly complete this trip alive,

At each intersection, windshield wipers wave,
The roundabouts can put your signals to the test,
I think we’ll possibly complete this trip alive,
Recite the mantra constantly: drive on the left!

Just Desserts

for Veda and Devya

Welcome to New Zealand,
here’s your trifle.
Blackberries, papaya, feijoas,
custard, whipped cream,
and wonderful.

Second night: apple pie.
And I hadn't even told them
it's my favorite.

Coming up tomorrow:
cheese cake,
with homegrown lemons.

I may never go home.

Everywhere

Two years ago,
I was in California,
when Swamiji left his body in Italy.
I woke to the news
in the middle of the night.

This year,
I am in New Zealand,
watching a memorial service
in California
in the middle of the afternoon.

Every year,
Swamiji is everywhere,
watching over all of us,
still bringing us together.

Crossing the International Date Line

Kia ora and good evening, ladies and gentlemen.
Welcome to Air New Zealand flight 7, San Francisco to Auckland.
Following our safety video, the flight crew will be moving through the cabin
to collect Tuesday, April 21st from all passengers.

It seems an ordinary trash bag, but we’ve had no meal yet,
no trays to return, no pretzel wrappers, no small plastic cups.
And when I find the bag held expectantly before me,
it is full of days.

A birthday for someone who will be 29 for another year (again).
An anniversary, forgotten now (by both parties).
A fatal accident avoided (or delayed).
Recovery from an illness delayed (or lost).
First meetings between strangers who will never become friends (archenemies, soulmates).
Epiphanies (failures) estrangements (reconciliations) chances (changes).
Ordinary, unnoticeable (unforgettable) days.

All these days, these April twenty-firsts that will never be, swirl together,
stringing themselves into entire April lifetimes,
separating again into little April deaths.

And as I watch, I suddenly feel a day
— not older or younger, but simply — lighter.
My breath catches, but the flight attendant moves on,
and only the man behind me (possibly) (doubtfully)
notices which day would have been mine.

On the Eve of the Tuesday that Wasn't

On the eve of the Tuesday that wasn’t,
I emptied my suitcases full,
drove away from the airport at once and
then parked in a small swimming pool.

On the eve of the Tuesday that wasn’t,
the jet taxied down the bike lane.
The stewardess showed me her boarding pass,
so I let her get off of the plane.

On the eve of the Tuesday that wasn’t,
I traveled as slowly as light,
and one hour passed like a dozen,
(and then vice-a-versa at night).

Then after the Tuesday that wasn’t,
comes the Wednesday that will be (I think)
Then I’ll stand upside down in New Zealand,
and my brain will be back in the pink.

Packing Up and Sacking Out

I’m packing and I’m stacking
with the suitcase nearly cracking
but I feel that something’s lacking,
and it’s not there in my heap.

Through the hustle and the bustle,
I detect a softer rustle:
it’s the ache of brain and muscle --
I think I need to sleep!

Shifting Gears

The morning started in Portland, homemade
biscotti snuck in before Guy could make
his way from bedroom to the breakfast table.
The toddler-consciousness of living with
a two-year-old gets into everything—
from when to sneak the sugar to the choice
of mealtime entertainment (this time it
was peck peck, peck peck, peck peck, peck peck goes
the woodpecker’s book). Bowls of porridge with
the home’s best homemade home-grown pear sauce that
was sweeter than you’d think with nothing but
pears in it. A rainy day—perfect for
a book, a cup of hot chocolate, or a
drive to the airport forgetting the bag
of cookies set aside for the journey.
Transition to airport mind: baggage, crowds,
Las Vegas-consciousness wafting like smoke
from seats just to the right in front of me.
Then home again, through shuttles, trains, and doorway.
A three o'clock what? Dinner, lunch or dunch?
Regardless, quesadilla, because the
ingredients were in the fridge, and also
because a two-year-old would like it and
yes, a chunk of my mind is still on Guy.
Then to the temple, flower-consciousness
pervading, altar preparations for
Good Friday coloring my meditation.
I finally begin to focus, in
time for our class. We meditate, and talk
of karma, lofty subjects, and not once (I think)
did I ask them what sound a kitty makes.

Packing

Packing — probably as unpopular a task
As anything that ails you. It’s almost a nightmare
For the ornery, the unorganized, or others of their ilk.
It’s the current canary in the coal mine of my rapidly
Decreasing and dwindling endowment of time this evening.
What will I — or won’t I — need?
How many hands do I even have to carry it all?
Interestingly, the instruments are all itching to join me.
The mandolin is a maybe, mostly for the fact that it’s
Smaller than its sisters, except for one.
Yes, the ukulele is yapping excitedly,
Like a lapdog looking for walkies.