Potluck Passion

Five out of Six Ain’t Bad

                                               “For as long as space endures

                                                And for as long as living beings remain,

Until then may I too abide

To dispel the misery of the world.”

Verse 55 from Bodhisattvacharyavatara by Santideva, an 8th century Bodhisattva

I may be a sattva,

but I will never be

a Bodhisattva.

It requires perfection

in six categories.

Yes, I am generous,

(with my time, anyway)

have plenty of patience,

(unless I’m running late)

and a fair amount of wisdom,

(comes with age, you know).

I can concentrate for long periods,

(when the kids are asleep

and the phone’s not ringing)

I’ve been known to put forth

a great deal of effort,

(when I want to).

But, it’s the ethics part

that gets me.  Not that I’m

unethical, mind you, it’s just

what is right for me

may be wrong for someone else.

Besides, no one is perfect

unless…

you’re a Bodhisattva.

where my poems are born

Stephens College lies 1,400 miles and thirty-five years from my childhood home in Massachusetts. As I walk across campus here in the heart of Missouri, chapel bells strike the hour and Westminster chimes warp and converge time and space.  At this moment, I am home in a confluence of nostalgic feelings that wash over me like water.  The Connecticut River of my youth, the Missouri River of my present, and the Mississippi River that flows between lap at the shores of my consciousness.  I stand barefoot on the banks and dig my toes into the memories. The chapel bells and the grandfather clock of my childhood unite, resonating inside me, sparking a rhythmic intonation.  Home – home – home.

The sound of the chapel bells on campus or dried leaves scuttling across the sidewalk remind me of my childhood.  A certain gesture or gait of a stranger brings to mind a loved one I haven’t seen in a while, and miss.  Something touches a sense in me, the warmth of the sun on my face as I walk out of shade or shadows or my infant grandson’s body curled in slumber across my chest.  Moments and memories, these are where my poems are born. 

My writing reflects a confluence of past and present in a home that travels with me.