Be Mindful of Death

Who, would make plans which do not reckon with death, when he sees the world so unsubstantial and frail, like a water bubble?    
                                                     from Buddhist scriptures


The Other Shore


At sometime, on a simple day,
the gift of wind will fill you
with fullness of freedom.


Your words will bathe in the
rain, inhale the divine mood,
during the baby eclipse.


Souls will stroll for their last
visit, inhale the gifts stitched
by oil lamps, while you stir
your feet in the mud.  Your
knees will tremble, elbows
will give way.


Fingers super small, can't stop the
sprawl nor ears reach the call.
Turn off the phones.  Life is quieter
that way.  Birds' wings don't make
up all the falls we have been through
since


the box returned;  useless now,
freedom lives within.  Drive those
cars around, burn up the ozone.
It doesn't matter to dying me.  I
jumped off the wrong bed, into
the cold wintry snow.


Rainbows and angels blend in
the sky, flapping their wings,
saying good-bye.  Parchment 
paper unrolls;  speaks to the 
untold of unrest and unease
which unfolds words inside
bosoms to tell new stories,
bring new life, spread pollen.

Rise, walk the river to the other shore.