Author Information
Singing Lotus
The wind,
still innocent,
still playing in the
chickweed and
some levitating ferns,
brings back to me
the airy gold,
the sugary madness,
the floating loss
of sixty-some summers.
I believe it is time
to join the living,
or better still,
become the lotus,
a holy ship upon the mud,
an origami scripture,
a hymn only the angels hear,
living sincerely
because it can.
But how is
that possible?
The world
chants as it
is swallowed.
How can it bear
such sublime
and exquisite pain?
God wrote
something here
(I believe it was:
"Unlimited")
but all I can see
are countless names
spelled out in smoke
as the sky pours
the last
of its drama
upon the ground—
the end is
erratic crimson,
thrashing love,
bleeding hills
and broken songs of praise:
Disquieting things
that taunt what
I’ve always believed.
So explain that.
As the branches
unmoor the moon,
set adrift
its legendary sail,
everything changes
in the fluid
secrets of night.
With an embracing glow,
another voice
in the cosmic choir
fractures what we call
darkness and
it’s now so comically clear . . .
Behind the farce,
behind the stage,
behind the dream,
There is nothing
but light
that never sleeps
and wins,
not with force,
but a word.
Patricia Joan Jones
Buddha
I feel the touch of Buddhah here blush at the touch.
I am humbled and thrilled
I am humbled and thrilled that my words opened a portal to a higher consciousness as you so beautifully expressed. Thank you for such valuable encouragement.
While this is a poem from
While this is a poem from which all readers can receive benefits, this is a poem that will most minister to those who have experienced the loss of "sixty-some summers." (The number is not literal.) I thought I had lost sixty-three summers. Then I remembered what the Thief on the Cross asked of Jesus, at a waning moment, when the Cross's dire work on Jesus' body was at its peak of acceleration, and the Romans would soon be approaching to break the thief's legs. The thief asked to be remembered. And we know how Jesus answered him (Luke 23).
The loss "sixty-some summers" (a brilliant phrase) is answered by remembrance. I speak from practical experience. The remembering cannot be like cheap tourism. The remembering must seek patterns, connections, and parallels---aspects once hidden to us, but now revealed by experiential wisdom.
She writes " it’s now so comically clear . . ." And comedy need not mean zany slapstick, or stand-up dirty jokes, but the austere Comedy meant by Dante when he named his long poem, Comedia. The cosmic reach of remembering "sixty-some summers" is no less dramatic and salvific than the three huge Canticles written by the great Italian.
Starward-Led [in Chrismation, Januarius]
Thank you for your radiant
Thank you for your radiant insights into my intent and word choices. You always unearth the precise meaning of my expressions, and that is always a deeply gratifying experience.
Always an honor.