A meditation by a tree upon the noble truth that the root of all suffering is desire

At fifty I'm coming into my Buddha-hood -

I'm finally starting to let go of desire.
Not the immediate lust
for sex and wine and song -
that is a thing of the body, not the mind.
No - I'm beginning to loosen my grip on should -
the corrosive expectations 
that have been scourges on the present,
the slave master who wielded the whip
driving relentlessly toward power and wealth,
driving with the indifference that comes from knowing
there were a long line of bodies 
to step up when this one failed.
But the hand holding the whip
is attached to the same body 
as the back upon which the blows land.
"To what end, all this toil?" I ask
in my best 18th century diction,
and try to sit still with an empty mind,
here,
beneath this tree,
with its leaves still heavy with spring,
but I am only beginning to let go. 

Audio: https://anchor.fm/honest-chaos/episodes/A-meditation-by-a-tree-upon-the-noble-truth-that-the-root-of-all-suffering-is-desire-etd208

YouTube: https://youtu.be/kIzS7j0bqu8 

sailing in company

I wouldn't have chosen you as a friend -

we had no common anchor 

in a sea of choices of companions.

But here we are, decades later

laughing on the phone -

An accident of wind and tide tossed us together

and the things we have in common

are the stories we have shared -

the common weather of 

disappointments and triumphs -

as the world stormed and washed over us

letting us know with certainty

we were single-masted boats in a vast ocean.

We have willed our friendship into being

first weaving strands from the salty air

then rope from those strands.

It is a thing from nothing,

but as our grip on the rudder 

diminishes arthritically,

its strength binds the distance between us.

I wouldn't have chosen you as a friend

when I was young

and did not see below the waves,

when I did not know anchors are meaningless.

I would choose you now.

Audio: https://anchor.fm/honest-chaos/episodes/sailing-in-company-estojn

YouTube: https://youtu.be/_HuPpbN0SB4

 

cancer killed my mother

Cancer killed my mother this year -

the year I have at last arrived at after so long a latency.
I have wondered about this year -

fifty.

It's a weighty word in your mouth -

it has to be spit out

like a lemon seed.

It lays on the ground afterward,

hard and sterile.

I've resented this year

since her skin took on the yellow of a bad sepia filter

on some influencer's feed.

Cancer is not coming for me this year -

perhaps a heart attack

or a car accident is in store.

But it won't be cancer. 

 

audio: https://anchor.fm/honest-chaos/episodes/cancer-killed-my-mother-esrh1i 

video: https://youtu.be/lDIGrswWh_I

The Many Days

What have I done with the many days -

the perfect spring ones when you see the daffodil shoots
erupting from the mulch like a promise -
the perfect summer ones when you can paddle on the river
and watch the red-fingered sunset
play across the flowing surface -

the perfect fall ones when the sun is low
and there is morning frost on the grass
and the wet leaves smell like the turning of the world?

finally, what have I done with the perfect winter ones -
the ones when you wake to brilliant white light
reflected off the fresh snow covering 
the lawn you mowed in the summer
the leaves you raked in the fall
your kayak out on its rack
and the mulch beds where the daffodils lay sleeping?

It is on the winter ones that I sit at my kitchen table by the window
my coffee's steam billowing up through the brightness 
from above and below
that I hope with sincerity
that I have not wasted the many days,
even the imperfect ones, which, upon reflection
are not so different, after all.

Audio: https://anchor.fm/honest-chaos/episodes/The-Many-Days-escm8n

YouTube: https://youtu.be/TpIW7pSF8-g

Morning Commute

I can hear The Downeaster pushing the air ahead of it

before it rumbles past the back of the house, again,

like it does every morning.

In the late days of winter, the sun is just cresting

as we hear the train making its way back to Boston again,

the light glinting off the silver roofs

 just visible from my kitchen table.

At this hour it's businesspeople reading the paper

or their morning emails,

drinking coffee. 

They're eyes rest on the glass of the windows

but mostly they see their calendars and day's meetings

even as the New Hampshire woods slide past.

Some part of their brain is  vaguely aware of a little house with grey siding

they just passed,

sun reflecting off the windows. 

They don't see the man, also drinking coffee,

looking back at them.

They are passing through Newburyport

when I put my mug in the dishwasher 

and wander up to my office

where my own calendar and email awaits.

YouTube: https://youtu.be/FemO2vL8tVU

George

A giraffe is not a horse

of course.
But what if you could ride one and train it to pick apples?
You could saddle up George - you would name your sweet ride George -
and meander into an orchard completely unnoticed
and George would sidle up to an unsuspecting apple tree
and pull one off for you, turning his great neck 
and making a loop of it
to drop it in your hand, and then 
he would pluck another for himself
and you would wander amongst the trees
and the children and their grandmothers
nibbling your apples
and no one would really notice you, or George.
He would be a subtle giraffe,
standing still at times, 
so still no one would see the two of you,
unless you happened to sneeze.

Audio: https://anchor.fm/honest-chaos/episodes/George-ervjj1

YouTube: 

on this sort of day

 

On a day when there the snow falls without a whisper

fat flakes catching light and slowly piling white,

on a day when the furnace burns steadily

a soothing roar of air and heat,

on this sort of day when I kick my legs over the side of the bed

and the first steps ache in my knees, my back,

but by the time I have my t-shirt on

and,

one step at a time, make it down the stairs to the kitchen

with only a little creaking of ligaments in my feet 

to match the creaking in the old wood,

and,

with a cup of steaming coffee I can sit at the table

by the window.

It is on these sorts of days

that is surprises me how little

I wish for youth again. 

YouTube: https://youtu.be/FbaspS2aqT8

Audio: https://anchor.fm/honest-chaos/episodes/On-This-Sort-of-Day-erm8th

moving day

You walk through the empty house and

there is only dust in the corners and impressions in the rugs

where the furniture had rested a few hours before.

Where you sat at a desk against the window

and sometimes stuck, looked up to see a rafter of turkeys

wander out of the woods,

the rug shows where the legs had stood,

and there is an outline where the rollers of your chair 

roamed back and forth as you stood and sat.

In the bedroom there are the rectangular outlines of your dresser;

in the living room more divets for the couch and coffee table.

All the places you sat or slept, dressed or read,

laughed with friends, drank coffee or sipped wine

have been reduced to fibric memories that will disappear

when the crew you've hired to clean the carpets comes tomorrow.

 

YouTube: https://youtu.be/hwzN_84tCL4

Audio: https://anchor.fm/honest-chaos/episodes/Moving-Day-erm8pl