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
In a creative fashion I was cutting film with knives
By the road to a location that was littered with beehives.
’Twas a scene from the Inferno (what I’m telling you is true),
With a backdrop that was bursting into flame—or was that you?
Bystanders taking pictures to upload to Instagram
Watched in admiration as the river reached the dam
And pulverized the concrete to a billion little bits,
And then continued onward with neither starts nor fits.
It’s time to end this story, it’s getting much too long,
And turning into something besides a simple song.
You’ve read this far with pleasure (at least I hope that’s true),
But now I’ll take my leisure and say goodbye to you!
Poem © 2019 by Magical Mystical Teacher
More Sunday’s Whirligig #226
More Poetry Pantry #489 at Poets United
Reflections in the duck pond, Yuma Conservation Garden, Yuma, Arizona
A woman wrapped in water
will try to surprise you
as you are cultivating bean rows
in your long-neglected garden.
She will come,
bearing a blade in her hand,
from the place across the road,
where ice melted months ago.
Gulp at her appearing, if you must,
but do not let her speak.
Cut her off,
or with subtle words
and artifice and craft
she will begin turning you
into a pond or puddle, and laugh
when the deed is accomplished.
Trying to breathe in this place,
close to the source of my grief,
while coins thrown in the wishing well
are glimmering and turning—
I feel my right foot slip, and then my left,
something tightens in my chest.
Be still, my heart!
You will find a way out!