Search for me midst tears, wept soundlessly
From a heart moved to believe, surely
Whatever comes, a feeling, revealed
By the hand of grief, who haunts the dreams
Poverties washing soul in shadows
Heartaches written, bold black and hurt
Weeping dread, softest tones, search for me
In soft grief, as twilight bleeds despair
glass bottle vase
takes prideful place,
reflecting sunbeams
upon poverties face
Progress of Pilgrims
David J Walker
Poverties refugees
In portions of wealth
for the making
Sunbaked promises
Cotton spun gold
Such are the
stories told
For the taking
In the slim shadows of
Mills that turn wind
into water
soil into fodder for
cattle
forgotten graves
mark the progress of
Pilgrims on a
Caliche highway to heaven
The hillock, the bell
The swept terraces
The swept minds.
The white wood hall
The reflecting pools
The reflecting minds.
The weedless gardens
both in brain and curtilage.
The temple grounds.
The temple gives
flight.
The temple sounds
bird/wind, hush/shuffle
The temple sounds
right.
Some say all (I say many)
paths
lead to these courtyards.
Follow flower flows.
Wending ways, find one's way.
The middle path, the Wu Wei Way...
Many, many ways to find One Way;
to find one's way, to finally find,
to unwend one's way to home mind, to
No Mind.
Silences...
Echoing off Oms.
Poverties...
Bowls cradling alms.
Quietudes in multitudes,
of balding bones.
The chatterless babble of an unseen brook.
Torii, lotus, gravemarking gorinto, stupa, murti;
each here, each
forsook.
Cherry, Plum, and Chrysanthemum;
each a Zafu seed, each a mustard seed.
Verdant lives, wants fallen
as Autumn leaves. Needs.
And for the nun? And for the monk?
Each path of pilgrim's footfall
an invitation, a lure for the mind
at least, if not the heart,
to
depart.
I want to hide in the closet
My heart jumps with fear
I wish I wasn't here
The arguing begins to come to an end
Tears began to escape my eyes
The shadow that locks my view
Is so cruel and devious
I lock the door in fear
Of what lurks in the shadows
What lurks beyond that door
The door knob turns with creaks of misery
The thought of what the cruel shadow might do
Escapes my mind to hide in the dark corners
Of the world that I was once afraid
Even though I fear the loneliness of the dark
The loneliness of the dark comforts my fears
The door opens in inches like a snake
Awaiting its next meal like prey in the jungle
The pain makes the breathe escape my lips
The flesh to flesh touch makes my body numb
The rivers flow between thy legs
Where is thy protector?
I should speak for the cruel shadow
That shows me his pain and misery throughout life.
And now
Here I stand underneath the belt of poverty
Rape my future
An I shall be one with poverties own.
There are all kinds of poverty
and no sin in being poor
yet, beauty in its truest form
always will endure.
Disparity has its price to pay
when greed becomes the lure.
How we handle lucre, it seems,
tells others who we are.
There’s poverty in China
and capitalism too,
yet, the desire to level the field
brings other factors in view.
They’ve seen the value
in selling culture, history
to world hungry for beauty
which disdains disparity.
The desire to care for the many
not cater to the few,
brings different kinds of order
still, poverties there too!
Nepal the Yin of planet Earth
where inward voices grow
has its own desperation
and rebellions to forego.
Individual beauty of spirit
was strongest here
they stepped inside, aside...
when discord did appear.
Egypt has it marvels
of man and Gods galore
but in the space of mosque light
truest beauty found its lure.
The face of child of mother
the straight-backed prowess of men
the coal black eyes of hunger
the starving animals in pens.
NO culture can climb the precipice
to sucess, all are destined to fall
as long as some have everything
and most have nothing at all.
Ghost,
Of poverty.
Sits upon a dusk chair,
Secluded as a forgotten smile.
Secluded as the pale rose,
Beneath the dusk chair of,
Poverties Ghost.
Where words,
Never,
Leave the seclusion of their, own tuneful misery.
Mortal:
Why does one care about my well being.
I am but one mortal in deaths keep.
I am but one mortal in poverties garden.
So why does one care about my opinion.
I am but the strings on a puppet,
Not even worth mentioning.
So why does one care about the tears I shed,
Upon this baron world.
I am but a speck of sand,
In its desert.
So why, o, why wise one.
Wise one:
“Because you are a mere mortal,
That I care.
And it only takes one pure speech, and devotion, to
Change this hellish land into a thing of beauty.”
* “it takes a Civilization, to destroy the world
And it takes a Civilization to nurture it.
But it takes one mortal to inspire that nurturing care and spread it like wild fire upon the
land"
* i made that up
Moist brown rice bountiful bowl
drenched in salt tears cold.
Seasoned with the sweat of toil
clean water sun boiled.
Overflowing dish
enough food
a dream!
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