Full Circle

Part I

An empty mind is a Buddhists mind

and their poetry

Consists of empty circles

I am in church

Meditation--Enlightenment

I've forgotten what I knew

I am a Skeptical Buddhist

White paper

incensical letters of perfume

being burnt into me

he smiles as he speaks

but before he removes his coat

he reveals his true nature

surveying the class

with his foreign eye

I watch him like TV

Part II

Zen's the art for me-

turmoil in thinking can be-

sleep, dreams, want, adds not--

Mind blank

I hear singing birds...

as I myself fly beneath the canopy...

my wings touch the trickling brown tips--the savanna...

they drink in the spiritual heat of the desert...

clouds in the sky move through the light-blue...

my mind...

through the forests...

quiet dreams...

sitting beneath the singing birds I hear...

I am

Buddha-

It's beautiful

lightening strikes in the sky

and death holds the beauty of a moonlit ocean

Two buddha sit as the lotus

beneath the lightening-new moon-petal written sky

it can be said that they touch

while escaping the boundaries

of touches color

one buddha

and all buddha

rise

stepping back

studying his ebony dark skin

sitting in peace

his father

is buddha

the jungles moisture

as nature

moves beneath his feet

the sun bleeds upon his body

his body melts into the desert rock

from beneath the stars and full moon

the clouds open the sky in it's all out rain upon his body

a darkened figure takes her form from the shadows

but he is not afraid

she stops before him

her feet melting the new snow beneath

She takes his hand

they walk above the new snow towards the castle and city standing years before them

their dreams precede them

entering the castle's open door

snow fans across the entrance--desolate

but flame implied shadows invite them

up the steps

to the very end of the hall

a fire burns

where they lie in bed

and graciously accept

all the castle offers...

they grow old

they've lost each other

on the way

the snow has melted

a decade ago

and his feet grow raw

on the glacier littered

rock and gravel

the city alone stands before him

he'll find her there

and maybe pull some weeds from my fathers grave

If he remembers where

...his steps echo on like steps before

and the city has grown too large to be seen as whole

...Winter Spring Summer Fall Winters

pass and continue to pass again and again...

III

(the city)

his barefeet test the summer hot black top

he quickly jumps back to the warm gray of his sidewalk

he had hoped to wash his hands and face in the public bathroom

there is a certain Zen experience in hand washing

but crossing the street is too hot for his feet

he watches the cars and cabs go by

and notices a quick coin's clink in his styrofoam Seven Eleven coffee cup

resting in his hand

as a prize

like indigo and indian spice

in it's journey from far away

as from his past

where had his shoes gone?

his lost vessels for coping

and transcending the street...

In the shade

he falls asleep

and dreams of Autumn...

all around

the trees litter leaves

as yellow snow

winds blows

and his hand moves to his sword

reminding him of the fighting

he rides away from

a glimpse

and a running in the woods

take his hand from his hilt

he dismounts the horse

...steps like water

fall down the stairs

he wakes

looking at her red pumps

connected to the familiar legs

standing before him

"I've got something for you,"

says an intimate voice

as he stares into the blinding light of the sun

and her facial eclipse

she tosses a new pair of red Keds

on the sunny sidewalk before him

"They look about your size."

he ignores the Keds and extends his hands

in attempt to push away the obscuring light

Growing nervous

the woman quickly walks away...

The summer night grows mild

she imagines crickets singing to her

stirring up visions of a faraway land

In her hand she holds the remains of her dinner. She hopes he likes Indian food. She smiles at her attachment to this strange homeless man that lived as a neighbor to her buildings steps for signs of him. Stopping before them she looks both ways down the street for him, but in his seat sits a piece of paper held down by a piece of brick. `Gone to find my father"