November 28th, 2020 Poems

Marching Tune

 

Here and now

Early in the morning

A single little lamp

On the desk keeps

The cold and dark at bay,

But not the old days 

That pulled my heart strings

Taut over and over…

That was then.

 

Here and now

Seven decades under my belt 

I make allowances for doubts

That I had let dig their heels 

Into the ground, refuse to move 

On after the game was lost, 

Not hearing that the play 

Was still on… 

That was then.

 

Here and now

The play still pulls the heart 

Strings and I let them go

Following the orchestra,

No digging heels into the ground

That is the difference 

Between now and then.

 

Here and now

I know that the well

Got deeper and it still runs

Carrying the music

Even though I can no longer sing

The finishing line,

 

The blue sky above the well

Allows the troubled cloud 

To pass, I know 

How to sit under the umbrella

And wait,

What a difference between

Now and then.

 

The game is lost

But the playing field

Invites a new game

Like love is never lost

It’s only the perception.

 

Like the water particle 

Even after the long windings 

Of the sea and crashing 

Onto a shore,

The essence remains

Regardless the shape

Still floats our heart

Here and now,

And there and then.

 

March on!

 

Yenna Yi 

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Prompted by the call of Rumi’s Ruminating Poem

 

Notice how the motion of noticing, notices itself—

so if I notice enough—perhaps I double myself?

Notice every hour—arrives here from previous notice,

with no postage due, ready to open to further notice…

Notice how a moment’s breath meets me half way through.

feels my inner needs and feeds itself as it feeds me too…

Notice how I’m awash in the late rinse cycle of time—

I hope i’m hung out in the sun, rather than tumble dried…

Notice my wish for a scrambled breakfast dish again,

served with ketchup-heart-words from parted friends…

Look at the pit from the peach I just ate and contemplate

this wrinkled texture that looks, feels like my ancient brain…

Look at me looking in the looking-glass-mirror of you,

to find a same kind of Alice like mind—amazed, bemused…

Look at how I vanish when this blind mind fine grinds,

decaffeinated daydreams, fills up cups of wasted time…

Look at Rumi’s human guest house, welcoming all souls —

raised to heaven, fallen to hell or playing facebook rolls..

Look through the hum of a mother’s love-scrubbing eyes,

watching her baby’s playful bathing, entirely smile-wise…

—Mike Macdonald