"We are all in a house of mirrors.

Always take a second and a third glance."

--Kuma-sensei


JOGGING THE MEMORY

Some will see these words

and they will be nothing more than passing birds.

Fortune cookie nonsense.

A distraction.

A nomenclature that doesn't light up the cells or the bones.

 

No harm, no foul. 

We'll see you on the other side.

 

Others will hear these words leap off the screen

and there'll be a resonance

like an old familiar fragrance

that reminds them of that place

where we once all felt at home.

 

Maybe this is a funeral.

Yours, mine.

 

Maybe it's a feast.

I'm hungry for something real; aren't you? 

 

Maybe this poem is an angel arriving on the scene.

A guide.

A bodhisattva.

A well-meaning soul, 

confused by the grasping chaos of the world,

who just found the trailhead

that leads out of it.

 

Whatever, and however, and whenever...

the words stitched here are woven from a pulsing thread.

That thread ran through the sun and the moon

and your grandmother's hands

as she held your tender form

in your early days of being here.

 

You see:

Whatever the labels and connections,

whatever relational bonds were

or were not

'in place' upon your arrival,

something

has been pulling for you

since the beginning,...

 

...and I

was asked, 

quite clearly,

to remind you of that tonight.

 

MOVEMENT AS RECLAMATION

It's not going to manifest from just sitting there.

Sitting has its place.

Morning.

Early-Evening.

Mid-Day.

Sit like a mountain.

 

But there's quite an ancient fractal memory

that has taken up residence inside your bones

and the only way its secrets will be released to you

is if you

get up

and move.


(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com

sound: top: Nangoku / Mist / Chihei Hatakeyama

sound: bottom: Future Tribe / The Serpent's Lair / Steve Roach + Byron Metcalf

 

 

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