Gratitude
You are the plump pigeon in Trafalgar
Square
perching briefly on Lord Nelson’s
shoulder.
You are the fountain too, with its generous
jet of cool water to delight the senses.
You are the holy hall of mirrors
in the elevator of La Fonda Hotel
in Santa Fe, reflecting perfectly
all who go up and come down
with your inscrutable third eye.
You are the dark haired dakini,
the one who cried in the salon
after the careless cutter took
too much of your black hair
leaving you sadly shorn.
Or was it Sean who left you, sadly,
after you discovered him, presciently,
in the bakery drinking his coffee
with another sangha girl,
the faithless, treacherous man?
You are the sunrise over the Bay,
the red wine in the crystal goblet,
the one who loves poetry,
carries Mary Oliver in her backpack,
the one whom poets can’t help loving,
the spreading young ivy’s luxuriant growth
that clings to the wall of our imagining,
the apple blossom and corn fields of
Iowa,
the rightful inheritor, if truth be told,
of a fine log cabin in California hills
stolen away by deceitful treachery.
You are the note left in Nissan truck
with bar of rich, dark mocha chocolate
and the warmth of a woven red shawl.
You are the sound of African salsa
that mingles inextricably
with the rhythmic heartbeat
of gray-haired poet in adobe cabin
in northern New Mexico,
capturing bright butterfly words
to pin them on the page,
their wings still fluttering
with boundless gratitude.
Merci, chere amie, merci!
Convergence
Poetry is heart’s vibrant yearning
expressed in sound.
Wine is sunlight
held together by water
from the ground.
Bread is wheat leavened by
yeasty fungal fission.
Butter is cow’s milk
beaten into gold submission.
Mind is continuity of change
without remission.
How did the coming together
of you, my dear, and me
converge in unexpected harmony?
I have no answer.
I stepped from the little Cessna
at Lebanon, New Hampshire,
and the sight of you, sky dancer,
tall, blue-eyed, rosy cheeked
struck a major chord
in the key of now-I-see.
Looking in each other’s eyes
there was no separate me:
conjoining what’s below and what’s
above,
the tone vibration of equality and
love.
Four weeks have passed
and now you’re far away.
Impermanence alone
is here to stay.
The man I thought I was
has vanished without trace.
You touched that seeming solid me
and it dissolved in space.
But still I live and love, and choose
to sing now with a softer voice
in a minor key, a gentler blues,
because I have no choice.
I’ll celebrate the shifting sands,
the way the tide will come and go,
remembering how mind expands
when all I’m doing is letting go.
There’s nothing to hold onto anyway
and, knowing this, I sing my soft hurray!
Richard Arthure, better known by his
Buddhist name, Kunga Dawa, was a
close student of Chogyam Trungpa
Rinpoche and has travelled and taught
extensively throughout the U.S., Canada
and Europe, transmitting the Buddhist
and Shambhala teachings with characteristic
insight and humor.
Send poetry submission of 250 words or fewer to Boulder Weekly at [email protected]
