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Poem

A banjo is playing in the bodega.
A door proclaims its ding and dong
voltaic birds bounce to its tintinnabulum,
flickers of auricular featherings
wipe shelves of a million years of dust.
The banjo is at prayer and you are there
as you peal with its cadence and quiver.
The bodhisattva
they that dynamo the sonic tides,
the waves,
air waves, sounding and soundless,
who sparkle
in the high deep heavens
and in the low wallows
where ankles are the muddy roots
of wind chimes and cow bells.
Sounds unleashing
the knelling thunder of peace.
Alabaster hands poised in mid-air
signaling an elemental perfection.
The kinetics of gesture and stillness,
as doors open their choiring mouths,
as banjos mimic the sounds
of all practicing avatars,
and we hearing
only the ding yet missing the dong
unthinking un-ring Gods temple gong.

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