Goodbye, I!

the Farmer drove his tractor where the soil had been tilled

planting Corn in rank and file from the silo to the lumber mill

he rode along in silence as he looked out past the Honeysuckle field,

watched the water turn the waterwheel

thinking about his daughter with affection,

her reaction of disdain

the day he replaced the blue Hydrangea

with the climbing frame

while her disappointed Sister looked on,

quiet as the snow, knowing well:

those who know don’t talk

and those who talk don’t know

but (tho she tried)

she couldn’t help but sing!

the Tortoise in the wheelchair wrapped his forehead in a bandage

wore a plaster cast on his phony broken leg

so he’d get pushed around the sidewalk by the Zookeeper’s assistant

with the Hummingbird observing from behind a yellow Flower,

flapping his tiny wings so fast you couldn’t see them

with resentment for the Tortoise (which was clear by his expression)

but the Tortoise turned and smiled with a Peacefulness which proved

there’s a movement in our stillness and however much we move

we’re bound to stand completely still

so let’s stand completely still!

come, Tortoise, standing still -

go, Hummingbird, my will

come, Tortoise, stumbling blind -

go, Hummingbird, my eyes

come, Tortoise, letting go

go, Hummingbird, ‘I know’

come Tortoise undefined –

go, Hummingbird, my mind

come Tortoise, empty hands -

go, Hummingbird, my plans,

come, Tortoise, come and die -

go, Hummingbird, my I

goodbye, I!

(mewithoutYou)

The Cure for Pain

If you care to know, my dear,

There are but three seasons in my year:

Autumn, Spring, and Heartbreak

(also known as Being Here).

***

The cure for pain is in the pain,

so it's there that you'll find me.

If I could laugh I'd surely laugh,

but who would recognize me?

The Work is in the Work

The work of life,

which we may never cease,

is in the work

of finding oneself.

We must distinguish ourselves from the world

so that we may not accept the world,

as the Tao Te Ching teaches.

This work of life

we must never tire of

or retire

or hang up like a damp coat after the rain,

coming inside the warm home of pleasure

and distraction.

The beguiling and delightful music

we have grown so fond of

is inviting and free

and reminiscent

of everything we want to be.

But it is mere noise to drown

the cries from our insides.

It begs us to move and dance

And quicken our steps

and gives purpose to our feet,

but only for a little while,

a few songs

until the feet grow sore and tired.

We are dancing, twirling, spinning, moving

Joyful, joyfully exuberantly busy

but never breaking out of the circles of our steps.

We are moving and shaking and laughing and loving,

but not going anywhere at all.

The work is in the work

of leaving the dancehall,

of silencing the rhythms of our youth.

Of letting our feet grow tired of dancing

but never ceasing to move.

The work is in the work of finding the movement,

the moves that we were made to make.

Of heeding the call of the cry from inside

and silently, slowly working toward truth

and not stopping until we die.

The work of life

is in the work of dancing in silence,

and moving our lives to the rhythm of truth,

of getting somewhere and going somewhere

without even needing our feet to move.