Lesson Worn Threadbare Thru the Years

When I was young, in early 20s,
After living for seven days in silence
At Trappist monastery in Kentucky,
One of their elder monks died.

They dressed him in his work habit,
Plain, simple, black and white,
Coarse cloth, cross on chain around his neck,
Rugged, unpolished boots on feet.
Wrinkled hands folded on his chest–
Laid out for all the congregation
In small chapel, upon wooden bench.

Even now, the memory haunts me—
Not in a bad way, but oddly
Death of that old monk
Was a blessing, unsought but encountered,
Helped to change, redeem my ideas
Of what is best in life, of how to die,
Gives shape to how the dead
Should be given honor. Strangely,
I do not think I ever knew his name.

Of course, they did not embalm,
Though his body lay in front of chapel altar
At least two days before his service–
Readings from Good Book, a cappella chants,
Prayers offered by his band of brothers.
I do not recall that any tears were shed.

The chapel was full of monks, family,
Visitors, like me, who chose to attend.
At the end they picked up that
Old rugged wooden bench upon their shoulders,
Slowly circled high altar three times,
Incensed his body as they processed,
Exited outside through main door.
We each, alone, followed in absolute silence…

There, within fifty feet by the side of the church,
Was the graveyard, no tombstones above each grave,
Only simple wooden crosses with no names or dates.
A grave had been dug, six feet into dark Kentucky loam.
No coffin, no concrete vault to serve as tomb.
They wrapped his body in a clean white cotton sheet,
Encircled it with ropes and sang hymns
As they lowered lifeless body down into the ground.

After the rope was pulled up, brothers came close,
Each one sprinkled lime upon the body,
To help release it more quickly back to Mother Earth.
They shoveled dirt until the grave was full.
I stood there, looking, because how not to?
My own eyes filled with tears.

My breath was shallow, could not reach
Deep well of lungs, eyes open, taking in
The closing of this man’s final resting place.
Simple, sacred, dignified with quiet grace.
I was one of the last to depart,
Taking with me some mysterious lesson that
I’ve worn threadbare through the years.
This is the world. This is the world
From which we cannot run away.

And that Death is completely safe.

A Murder of Crows

Outside my door are three tall

Shag bark hickories, branches bare,

Naked in the late March air.

 

They stretch their arms out,

Holding a murder of crows,

Perched restlessly, like human souls.

 

They wait, as though wanting

A chance to be born again,

Reincarnate, perhaps in human form.

 

If I were a crow, I might want that, too.

Come back to live inside warm house,

Take a hot shower rather than be out in cold rain.

 

I am mesmerized by their dark eyes,

Thoughtful, wise, filled with longing,

Black beauty blended with hungry envy.

 

They watch me intensely as I leave the house,

Silently mock me if I wave my arms,

But do not fly away into morning breeze.

 

They seem entranced as I tie my boots,

Covering with tough leather softness of soles of feet.

Makes me curious if in prior lives they ever danced.

 

Are their calls a cry for help?  Are they so lonely

They fear I might fall asleep?  The mystery

Seems so obvious, I am disturbed with wonder.

 

When the World Seems Uncertain

There are times when it’s useful to

Think like an animal—like now

When you smell that peculiar

Sense of fear running through veins,

People get furious over stupid things

Or weep when alone at night.

 

One friend said, “I want to go home.”

But where is home when the world

Seems on fire, wolves circling in shadows

As incompetence sits upon the throne….

Who can we blame?  The Chinese?

Russians?  Italians?  Gay people?

 

When darkness seems pandemic,

It’s tempting to allow the heart to harden,

Feel constriction of hatred,

Make wager that fear will win.

Finally, I paused and then laughed,

Walked out under full moon.

 

Begging the light to take me back,

Slowly absurdity of hope

Began to dawn in the east.

How long will I allow myself

To be enslaved by my own fear?

Even as a nomad in exile, I still have a calling.

It Matters Not Which Path I Walk Today

It matters not which path I walk today,

Ancestors have come this way before.

Whichever gods you trust the most,

Have touched and blessed you from their thrones.

 

If you believe in Spirit Guides,

Then know they send you rightful signs.

Within Eternal Light forever shining,

Angels appear and whisper.  Can you discern their words?

 

Whatever path my feet walk upon today,

My way is where I need to be, assured.

May my eyes be open, my mind awake,

Darkness of my journey filled with blazing Light.

 

In past times, when lost, confused, have strayed;

Am now found today and thankful for my straying—

More blessed and send my blessing

To all this day I meet, to all for whom I pray.

 

Drifting Into Sleep

Drifting away into sleep,

All sense of direction lost, floating—

Washed clean by waters of the night.

I become the rain, falling into

Skin of Earth, or maybe it’s Venus,

Or maybe it has no name at all.

My name says nothing about who I am.

 

When lost within my dreams,

I have no name at all, own no home,

Have no car— but there are times

I’ve found myself beside the roots of trees,

Under garden of flowers where it’s moist,

Next to friends who are nothing but dust.

Together we touch and converse in silence.

 

When I wake, sometimes I have to search,

Forgetting my name, forgetting my work,

No fears, no cares, like death—completely safe.

Each day we wake as newborns, naked,

Opening eyes into the fresh light of day,

Walking onto new continent

From Oneness of the Ocean’s deep

Vast wholeness without the need of a name.