Sitting in the terminal waiting on a plane
Written By Dean Masciarelli
July 24, 2010 (12:58am)
Sitting in the terminal waiting on a plane
Trying to pass the time reading a magazine
And I finally get tired of the waiting game
So I get up to stretch my legs
and I start walking around
And I even spend time talking on the phone
And then I make one final trip to the restroom
Because I really hate going to the bathroom
when I am flying through the clouds on a plane
And that’s when I hear the speakers come on
Announcing that my flight has arrived and it is
time for me to stand in line for one more time
Before I can get on board
and reach my final destination
And when I finally get to my seat on the plane
I put my seatbelt on and that’s when
I say a little prayer to the angels in Heaven
So that everyone on the plane can make it home
to reunite with there families and there loved ones
Beneath the comforter curled, fetal, praying;
within the sacred orange of stucco robed walls,
students of Buddhism huddled kitten like laying;
while sound ricochets rattles down the red tile halls.
Liberty shakes the panes, lights the cobalt sky.
Sirens upon the rubble of imperial dreams, strew refuse, ply.
Primary colored prayer flags wave brazenly as the riots ooze.
Saffron incense mixes with the poison of citronella smoke loose.
The pallets pon planks shake novitiates like dies in a rattle.
Outside, down alleys, through flowered vines; Nepali’s battle.
Incense hung in the evening air
like the mist and the chains of prayer cranes.
Ferocious gilded guardian framed the gate
through the aged arched travelers trooped
Pilgrims all.
Monks diminutive in form,
draped in square clothes
of sacred orange, bow.
Prayer hands copped over beating hearts.
Business begins.
The business of lodging and lodgers.
The entrance holds the footwear of the prayerful;
worn, unkempt, yet colorful.
Inside the shrine futons fly to ta tami floors.
Teapots boil whistling in the mist soaked wind.
Coins clink into altar boxes before smiling Buddha’s.
Courtyards filled with fall blossoms of crimson mums.
Persimmon colored koi swim in small prayer ponds.
The bustle of the small alpine city does not intrude,
nor follow the faithful as into the moss covered
cemetery with its red cedar groves;
they walk.
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