... Page 4
page 1
page 2
page 3
page 5
Page 6
page 7
...Home
|
MISSING THE BOMBAY STONE Jumping ship in Bombay I sit on the seawall at the Gate of India on a March morning watching monkey boys, bearded sadhus, Krishna drummers, guru babas, yogis sari queens, flute players _ where are the snake charmers?
A turbaned Sikh catches my eye
Goodbye, good luck stone |
ANTIQUE SHOPPE scent of pumpkin potpourri, candles,lavender sachet, dried roses; cups, plates arranged on narrow tile aisles, tired Lionel, forty years forgotten in a basement, embarrassed now by Eisenhower magazines, pre-war salts and peppers, golden, rings, bracelets beneath the dingy light that gathers in their glass, boiling in the amethyst and crystal; figurines aligned behind the woman at the front reading Country Life, with dangled earrings, locket bought at auction at a dead man's house,
pretty things in windows, once
faded now like all the others, |
"LEVEL BEST" - WHAT COULD IT MEAN? Morning work begins with lighting my puja lamps, the incense sticks... Images of Darfur faces starving, bewilderment as I wash the clothes by hand outside the back door on the granite slab That could have been somebody's grave stone. I climb the ladder to the roof hanging new prayer flags, adjusting the fallen and twisted. in U.S. houses of my family, the cats are fatter than Indian babies. My grandchildren have never seen people living in huts happy for food in the pot, blue plastic roofs that keep out the rain, no cholera deaths in 16 months, no hockey equipment, no baseball equipment, not a single sleep-over party with pizza and waste that chokes the trash compacted I burn the worn out prayer flags next to the Bodhi tree, under the Buddha I painted on the crumbling brick wall of the garden. I throw crushed grass from Tibet onto the flames. What am I really doing? I don't actually pray anymore, the flags and the lamps do the job. I am the God I've been waiting for- So, I'll hang the clothes and let the wind blow where it may—Karma, Dharma— I've cut them out like worms in the Lotus. Terry Reis Kennedy _________________________ THE HOUSE OF GOD The soft hush of souls descending into A deeper Hell- The gentle intoning dries of those already In Heaven; A Heaven they have made, Safe, comfortable; Like a warm bed Imploring God Intoning theLord's Prayer... Strong hjands, Weak hands; Articulate fingers, Genuflections like frenzied dancers, Turning, churning; Incense burning- Acrid, sharp, pungent. Flaming wax, Shadows, shadows; hovering, looming, Saying* praying... Saints with imploring eyes, Judging, judging; Christ just in from Calvary! Dolores Guglielmo _________________________ |
Created on ... September 27, 2007