Poetry

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]