A Real Bodhisattva
A bodhisattva is the Buddhist equivalent
Of a warrior for Christ, who is well on their way
To being Christlike themselves.
Of course there are many degrees of bodhisattva
From those who only have the wish to be
To those who actually are.
Literally millions are examples of the former.
The Dalai Lama is a good example of the latter.
Real bodhisattvas are rare.
Their hallmark is infinite love and compassion
For all beings
Combined with deep insight
Into the true nature of reality.
This week the world lost a real bodhisattva
In the form of a young American patriot,
Who at just 31 years old
Had successfully reached a whole generation
Galvanizing many young people
To critically look within
And embrace traditional American values
Of family, honesty, integrity, openness,
Love, tolerance, inclusivity, and faith.
And for this he was martyred.
The world is a better place
For having known Charlie Kirk.
But it is certainly not a better place without him
Unless we take up his mantle
Take the torch, and shield and sword
And become real warriors of Christ
Bodhisattvas in the army of truth.
(9/12/25)
From the get-go
My brain played games
Making two plus six hard to learn
Denying reaction to music too.
I found solace in the mop
It never argued back
Or said
“Pina can’t get that.”
Yes, I could.
It was just easier to make you think
I could not.
I married late
Birthed two divine girls
Had no regrets
Smiled to all.
In the end a tumor took me
My brain did not
Fight back.
Just a girl looking for love
Eager to prove herself worthy
Another time, another place
No one knew her heart
ALEXANDRIA
I came late to Jesus,
Got cancer before my time,
Watched my husband die,
Found my baby drowned.
What did I do wrong?
Followed His church’s way,
Never missed a Sunday mass,
Confessed my sins religiously.
Refused to hear the call
For contraception—
That was not God’s way.
I made Him a dozen babies.
Why’d he punish me?
My faith wasn’t always strong.
Still, I never strayed,
Took communion regularly.
I prepare myself to meet my Maker.
Doctor says I only have a day or two.
Jesus, come to me—
Save me from eternal void.
Shàngó!
Where are your fiery eyes,
that spit fear into burning coal,
that blaze with warmth and glow,
a conflagrator dancing with flames?
Who dares invoke your name in sin,
and not have their tongue seared?
You summon thunder as a hound to hunt,
their wealth and souls it strikes at once,
swift as lightning no man can withstand.
You are a god with no patience,
a judge whose verdict is fire.
The guilty inherit their own shame,
terror grips their trembling mates,
till their fear spills water from their bladder.
Shàngó!
The king who hung himself–yet none dare say so.
Your name alone bends foes of Dàda,
your gentle, effeminate brother,
subduing armies without a clash,
a king great in life, even greater in death.
Your words are clothed in flame,
your breath consumes in thousands.
No scroll could ever disguise your greatness,
no fool could scorn your name
and escape the storm of your wrath.
And now, O thunderous king, hear me:
Unleash your fire on all my foes.
Shatter them into smouldering dust,
burn them in your raging inferno,
heap grief upon grief, lament on lament—
O king whose hanging none dare declare.
I seem to do everything wrong,
or else I just take too long.
I won't wear a dress
and my hair's always a mess.
I can't tell a joke
and yes, I still smoke.
Everything I do
is frowned on by you.
Now you've gone to heaven above;
I'll never be able to win your love.
A
historic flood
forgotten except in
tucked away
newspapers
which a reader
runs across and
due to an assumed
overlay of time
apparently
avoids the freedom
arising as what
is happening~~
Once there was a young boy
who did not learn at the same pace
who did not race in the same
predictable race – while his peers
played with fish and ball – grew,
traditional degrees from short to tall,
his world turned at a different length
rate; more different, were his
timeless seasons – artfully Time
he took in his hands, whittled
with imagination into novel shape
and form – for him, Time was
never seen quite a constant norm --
in fact, could be reversed, or quickened
into infinitely….
As I close the last window and draw the blinds shut;
The mountains once viewed and cool crisp air no longer a must.
As I dim the lights and close my eyes to rest
Visions of my tomorrows quickly fading as if to suggest;
A new dawning beyond the horizon removes the hands of time,
Leaving just my capsule of this world behind...
I am here for a short time
Sadly luckily my time has come.
I am not sick or anything.
But death is close to me all at once and suddenly.
I felt his breath all around me
I fear I am dead; I gave up on me.
None of you really did believe in me
You see, we are gods; once that ceased
I did not exist
I am ashamed of dying and leaving you alone
I am ashamed but tired death is sitting at the throne
I am okay I am thankful
I tried and failed
I am certain I tried I did my best
But darkness is here
There is no light at the end
My body was nothing
I abused it to the end
I believed in happiness
I never met her; I am dead
I never lived here, but I wrote some poems.
It was such a short time
I longed for love.
Some people loved me.
But myself I wasn't in love.
I struggled and grappled.
For life after death
I died a long time
There is nothing to cry.
I died a long time ago; there is nothing to try.
Pensile clouds of a new Truth loom.
With them are selected versions of
Extinct grief.
Looking through the yellowness of a
Dog’s eyes, this aura of Truth, pervasive,
Sours my palate.
What say the bulletins and tabloids
In their speech potency?
Have they recoiled on the sudden encroachment
Of stale seas
Or have they rolled out drums for Haley’s ROOTS?
Between Kamby Bolongo of watery essence
And the forested, warm plains of Juffure, ROOTS!
And drums fashion themselves out for Kinte,
Who must tap gently the face of the drum
For earthly summons.
From sinuous, valleysome frontiers backward,
We yodel loud,
Fronting bands of ROOTS.
If being pretty were a crime, you’d already be behind the bars
Because angels look at their reflection and wish they had your smile
And I’m not sentimental, but to you I must confess:
I’ve waited ages to find someone whose beauty can compare
If my poems were eulogies, you’d be nothing short of dead
Because not romanticizing you would be lying to myself
And how could I not when you give me those eyes?
The look that makes me think that burning can feel fine
If hell is real, maybe we’ll meet there again
Because if being heavenly was a sin, that’s where you’d be sent
And if to love you is to be doomed, then save me a seat in the flames
Because I wouldn’t mind going if it meant I’d meet you there
Have you read the note?
It speaks of the doom of the liquid element.
An inclement weather, grey, and with the fuss of a bleached lightning,
Besieges the tick of the clock.
Must have been a bland Sunday, which retreated
From the temerity of old wine,
Haunted by the lonesome refrains of exhausted hymns.
The belfry yawned loosely....
But quiet crept in like leprosy,
Hanging loops on loam-matted hair, black and fringy,
And nursing frets we held
When the wetted guitar strings would not strum....
Have you read her note?
Not the one of Mrs. Dalloway
Nor the one of Between the Acts,
But the one she cringed for —
That banal, invidious act, non-virginal,
Which haunts the church to this day.
USPS 2010 : Mother Teresa 100 Anniversary
Overcoming many ups and downs,
pacing the pious path God paved for her,
Mary Teresa born in Albania
became Mother Teresa in Calcutta.
Tormented by the agony of the destitute
she brought them to her home,
to where she felt they should be,
for everybody in her eyes is born equal.
She heard dedicated the divine call
of compassion resonate within,
reverberating as the voice of the Lord
in the dark nights of the sick.
The benevolent soul got beatified
and she was canonized in due time.
The ever caring mother entered
the holy sanctum of sainthood.
Raising her passion for the human service
to the ethereal heights of fortitude,
she emerged in the Missionaries of Charity
as the fountain of joy for the needy.
The citadel of empathy she created
decades ago with the bits of her heart,
abandons even now the tears of the indigent,
although she has gone to her heavenly abode.
In Biafra, when we drank from the tilting
cusps of dank leaves and washed with the spittle
of cassava,
the sun scorched like hell.
Añuruedoahu*, the oasis of war, like worldly
cowrie, stagnant, yet devoid of rural fetish,
calmed our nerves and built in the altar of
our souls hopes of answered prayers.
*A mysterious stream in the poet's village.
Specific Types of Eulogy Poems
Definition | What is Eulogy in Poetry?
Poems Related to Eulogy
tribute, citation, paean, accolade, acclaim, applause, commendation, exaltation, panegyric, encomium, adulation, plaudit, salutation, compliment, glorification, laudation,