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

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American Tea

The time honored tradition of English tea, So unlike American morning coffee, Always in a mug—to start the day. English tea is in the afternoon— More like the Japanese tea ceremony To give a ritual presence to life. The saucer so important to balance the cup. Americans find the saucer a nuisance. It’s what is in the cup that matters. Even the English drink coffee in the morning, American tea is at lunch—and iced— Ritual presence not forgotten—just ignored Americans drink tea in mugs. Mugs don’t need saucers.

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.

I Lie On My Back

I lie on my back on a grassy hill At night alone with the moon and stars And the breath of cool night air Thoughts try to think me And I stop them—they are yesterday And tomorrow—not tonight Where the stillness of this moment Lets me pass into s specialness Of quietness uncomplicated By thinking

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