Skip to main content

The Question




The First Question
                           
How do I know my sadness is real?
How do I know my joy is real?
How do I know that waiting for the bus to go to Kroger and buy chicken legs for dinner
Is real?  STOP…Just get on the bus. Go to Kroger.  Buy the chicken legs. Go home and
Cook them.  Pay attention to what you are doing.  If the grease catches fire, your house
Will catch fire and burn down.  You will be sitting in the ashes wondering “Is this is real?”
I assure you: it is real and reality will keep hitting you over the head till you wake up
And realize that you have been asking the wrong questions.

The Second Question

She was 12 and lovely and Jewish
Her parents adored her—a jewel in the family
Her father strong—Her mother gentle
The troops burned her village
They entered her house
What happened next was brutal
She kept telling herself she loved God

The next morning as she closed the eyes
Of her mother and father, she did not ask
If God was real—She cried

The Third Question

Percival stood in silence as he watched
The solemn procession of young maidens
Carry the Grail before the quiet king
His heart was burning with the question
He dared not ask in the silence of the great hall

The Fourth Question

He has lived for 8o years as he sits quietly
Watching the gentle rain on the trees
In the garden outside his window—
The memories which had haunted him
For years have faded--he now sees the rain
Pulled to earth by gravity as the answer
To the question he had never dared to ask

His daughter serves roast chicken for dinner—
It tastes so good.






Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Buddha Socks

Buddha Socks Days do not number The miss-steps of my soul’s journey Years and decades of seeking and searching Lost and looking—occasionally knowing Only for a moment with certainty Before the trance of daily life and doing the laundry Overshadow insights that would unlock The mystery of socks tumbling in the dryer Socks don’t know emotions— They just know our feet. They wrap our heels and toes unconditionally Paying no attention to the emotions of the moment The funeral, the wedding, another day at work— The socks are just there for us After a day of being very human We take them off and toss them into the laundry Perhaps socks Are the Buddha (I don’t know the original dates on this.   It is actually two separate poems which I found in old journals and merged into one poem   I luv it…)

DESCARTES AND THE CRAZY MAN

Sometimes, when I wake up in the morning The world is not what I want it to be But the world is still the magnificent mystery In which I am stuck between Plato’s ideals And Jesus’s Kingdom and Buddha’s Nirvana And the crazy man at the bus stop The world—It is in your face. It won’t let you go. Descartes got it right.   Throw it all out.   It is all A bundle of thought knots: concepts—illusions Birth and death and memory and hope A dance with realities we don’t understand You Think: The fact that you can doubt your doubts Is a clue.   There is a you behind the you you think You are—who loves the ideals, lives in the Kingdom, Dances in Nirvana and gives the crazy man at the bus stop A hug—He stares at you thinking you are crazy.

Dancing at Funerals

The chimney sweepers come to dance At the funeral of one of them who fell Now free of the soot and dark labor Free to dance—free of soot and poisoned Air free to breathe in paradise while they Return to chimneys—waiting The wives and sisters morn he who brought Food and laughter hugs and love now gone-- Who knows where-- Will the brothers lovers Fill the gap-- Dread and hope feed the wheel That keeps turning in this gray dreary world Where life is a never ending quest Where the dance at the funeral is That birth is just a ticket to paradise