the right spot (meditation poem)

The sense of difficulty is a primary resource
the feeling of easiness is a second good thing
these are ingredients   we balance to cook
these are pigments   we mix whenever we paint

at the center of your life   abides Shiv (Meher Baba)
if you don't find him   you're not looking in the right spot
search for him everywhere   discover him where you might
recognize him with difficulty   or with wonderful ease

is he king or vagabond?   I couldn't tell you for sure
if he's anywhere or nowhere   seems a dullard's inquiry
whereas sometimes he's as obvious as the objects on the table
he's at other times more hidden   than sweetness in salt

I always wanted

I always wanted to do something   or be something
I always wanted to feel something   or see something

yes all were busied with   capturing the fleeting now
I always wanted to lose something   or free something

I sought you in every place   you slipped through a dozen ports
you'd always murmur "Milan something   Paris something"

your hide-&-seek was childsplay   when we were children
now weary as death   I implore the judge to plea something

Ardeo's become a vagabond   for a wayward season
you can hear him babbling soft   "conturbat me" something

dark codes

What foot will stand alone?   every face is connected in a hundred ways
each erroneous jewel   sharp friends have corrected in a hundred ways

if the atlas of earth gets revised every century   mightn't tomorrow
yon brine arouse surprise?   who'd such islands suspected in a hundred ways?

when faults are well-established   blind habit's sore knees bump such similar chairs!
each surface of the form   in the end gets detected in a hundred ways

are our love-declarations   dark codes sightless bats will emit amid daylight?
each putative beloved   soon self-de-selected in a hundred ways?

the poetry's reflection   is the pool held in view when defeat is apparent
sheer cautzpah can achieve   what was never expected in a hundred ways

in what north shines a star   whose fond gaze for Ardeo beams pure & extant?
each aspirant to song   grievous labor perfected in a hundred ways

Observance

A certain sum of breaths   are in each life's lot
some claim the figure's inscribed   upon one's brow
the play's performed   & if maudlin seems the plot?
at least one stays absorbed   in the here & now
although thoughts might drift   one marvels at the scenery
and at times   one likes to improvise the lines
if you meet me in the park   we'll observe the greenery
but is this act two?   who knows?   I forget the signs

Saturday late in July

How sweetly   birds chirp in with sounds of traffic
how swiftly   morn perks up with skeins of light
again   Beijing's white fog appears prolific
again   my book's blank page bears what I write
the world accepts our heart   or disapproves
the universe (some whisper)   is a sham
the chessboard's grave despite my manic moves
I fly on ancient instinct   more than plan