What the Buddha Teaches
The Buddha teaches
Cessation of desires as
The key to Nirvana.
Life is like a wheel
Spinning on many levels,
Toward Nirvana,
Or like an old, but
Fast moving merry-go-round.
Spinning, spinning.
Every time we die,
Without eliminating our desires,
We are thrown back
On the merry-go-round,
Confused, empty,
As if made of straw,
To try our best again,
Without knowing
That we've ever been off
In the first place.
The Buddha teaches that
This is Eternal.
We do our best to
Reach the higher plane.
But many of us
Never reach Nirvana,
Like deaf, sightless
Wanderers,
Destined to circle
Around, die, circle around,
Die, circle around, die,
Forever,
As the organ music
Plays on
Until the end of time.
Marking Time
Every morning,
Just after sunrise,
I sit on my porch and
Watch an old man
Limp by on the street.
He must be ninety.
A white plastic bag
Dangles around his neck
On a chain,
like a burden.
The old man picks up
Small pieces of litter
And places them inside his bag
As if for safe keeping.
Bent over nearly to his waist,
He keeps his head down,
Steadying himself
With a black cane.
As I watch him,
I think of Shakespeare's
"Seven Ages of Man."
The old man wears
A green shirt and gray trousers,
Like a convenience store worker.
Butterflies and small birds
Circle and land ahead of him.
As if leading him on his journey.
As he bends over
And picks up another scrap,
He must smell water and pluff mud
from the salt river
Over the rise to the east,
And the sweet magnolias
That line our front yards
Like white angel trees.
Silence reigns.
At that time of the morning.
The old man shuffles,
Stops and fills his bag,
Picking each scrap
As if it were his mission.
His hair is thick and white
Like cotton batting.
Steady, Relentless,
The old man's face
Remains down, unseen.
And I hear no morning greeting.
He turns and makes his way back
On the other side,
Picks litter as he goes
By my house again,
Then disappears into the distance.
Tomorrow he will return
And every day after,
Like a living clock
Marking time.
His movement.
This is his work
Created in his old age,
His essence.
One day
He will disappear.
Everything passes on.
Researching a New Text
As I grow older,
I search my dreams
And my imagination,
Like a scholar researching
A newly discovered text,
For what is left
Of my future.
Dreams and imaginings
Blend in my mind,
Like daylight
Becoming night.
I imagine myself
Walking Monet's garden at d'Argenteuil,
Walking his life,
One painting after another
Imprinting on my mind.
Le Pont d'Argenteuil's
Greens and yellows,
And boats of gold and white,
Pointing,
Shadowed blue water
Moving from left to right
Without hurry toward the bridge,
Toward the end of the painting,
Toward greatness.
I dream that I am married
And that my East Asian
wife and I
Have several children
Of all ages and genders,
Though I have never
Been married and
Never fathered a child.
We all live in
a three story house
In San Francisco
on Telegraph Hill
That resembles a boat.
The children are foreign to me.
They look like their mother,
Pale, yellow-brown skin,
Black hair and piercing dark eyes.
But they are mine.
The dream tells me that
And my heart breaks
At the thought of losing
One of them.
I imagine myself
In Dickens old house
On Doughty Street,
In Bloomsbury,
Handling pieces of his life,
A vase with flowers,
A ceramic teapot
Rimmed by children,
Hand in hand
In Christmas clothes,
A piece of delicate dining silver
That may have once
Touched his mouth.
Then I go on to Westminster,
The gray stones of his grave
Removed, moved aside,
Like fake blocks of concrete
Without weight,
Red roses rising out of his tomb,
Piled into mountains
Inside the great cathedral
And out onto the street.
I dream that I am still
A young man,
Strong and confident,
Heading off into the chaos of life,
My hand waving for recognition,
Like a football player
In the open for a long forward pass,
Speaking loud enough
To be heard above
The present crowd,
I move ahead
Like a gazelle,
As fast as I can.
Without thinking,
Without worrying what
Others may think or do.
But my pace slows,
Until I am finished
And barely moving
On the periphery,
Flat like cardboard,
Without substance,
Of no more consequence
To others or
To myself.