Almost a Sleeping Buddha

Almost a Sleeping Buddha

Almost gone, the summit of the years and the down coast as from a great hill, a height of a hawk mile, a tuning fork of clouds, trees brushing a faint pastel.

Coming back she says. Let go and come back to me alive.

The dead you hang around your collars grows stale as a sick man’s garlic, some evil green has fallen gloomy as smoke about the heads of thinkers and dreamers cashed in for water and fell for miles like a river, a night wash from the ravines, a fall for its moment of weightlessness, its belief in itself cascading from her woman’s plenty like the rain or the fog or the snow up to our hips.

Rotund baby, spoiled prophet. What was earned is gone.

All of the grace with claws and teeth believe in themselves like a mantra from California and TV with an under current of baking bread and soundless falling.

Where arrival is stretched as long as the past, the flat lines of the road with no heart beat

no tambourine, only the machine of the mind taking on probabilities and specialties.

Something suiting for everyone like a club and a spade and a heart.

Pour old souls, pouring over the lip of the cup, putting down the money on a green felt ocean stretched tight as the Archean Era, the blasphemies of the Holocene and woman with her man and the fire in the grass land. The clay in its natural element of mud, nascent as the bugs.

The price today is high but the oil and coal just sit year after year as we plod and burn our way through the sand to the kiln glowing.

Hoping for a harvest of hands and lips and the start of a more fulfilling epoch speaking with our machines in a kind of brail.

A bolder dash bastardizing beginning in the interest of ends.

But heal with faith and by grace the sinews of becoming on the heart loom of time with warp and woof thick as braids, black as pupils open to night’s shade, its fire fly of moments and ointments to heal such wounds, a poultice and animal surety, a graft, a splice, a fix for the time being and we keep talking.

Making up as for another scene where the curtain fall and rain leaks of the ceiling mean less because it is warm and we are still traveling together, breathing air, giving up the reflections of our insides to see as shapes might imagine, if they could, showing themselves bright, solid and continuing. Showing us to us as me finally to you and myself blue as the saddest distance of our imaginings from here.

I know you surpass me and the metaphor of gloom is not enough to cover all of the distance we might share.

A thimble, a sliver, a drink of water.

At your death I realize that the lights of the mind eddying as a deep current, each in her own river, surrendering as Ophelia in the rushes, Moses in the reeds and all of the silt coming down from the mountain to lay gently with our bones in the great cliff works of time and dwelling and having someone to imagine that we are still here, open to some thrum of color or inkling of possibilities against the immensities we took so seriously, and for so long we have been cowed worshipping the great round belly like the muscle of an eye that twitches with the mites and dust of eternity in the air like so much dandruff or snow.

Who knew we could lay down together by the river and all ends loving would weep and mourn as we do with the short comings of reflections of things both passing and remaining inherent as the colors of the dep and the fabric of ourselves playing parts both caricature and real, asleep with a raised pinky of enlightenment.

Rolf's Poems and Pictures

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