This is my morning ritual, taught to me by the elders—women I met on holy ground. Turning to the east, I place a poem on my tongue, as though it were a communion wafer. Like the wafer melting in a faithful person’s mouth, I know the poem on my tongue will die if I do not sing it aloud, whether anybody hears it or not. So I sing: “Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.” Five times I sing the ancient words. And after the fifth time I laugh, for things all round me have joined the song: chickadees and caterpillars; butterflies and blacksnakes; mosquitos, mergansers, and marigolds. Everything with breath is praising the Lord. And the song is glorious.
the old stone Buddha’s broad lap
now holds an ocean.
More The Whirligig #268
More Writers’ Pantry #22 at Poets and Storytellers United
There’s wisdom in what’s dulcet,
And wisdom in what’s tart.
The old grow ripe with longing
For youth’s resilient heart.
Time proves our ground of being
To be both false and stale.
Come, my friend, let’s toast the dead
With green and bitter ale.
Poem © 2018 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Sunday’s Whirligig #184
More Poetry Pantry #425 at Poets United