POETRY

 

ASH WEDNESDAY

 

This is the time of tension between dying and birth

The place of solitude where three dreams cross

Between blue rocks

The place of solitude where three dreams cross

Let the other yew be shaken and reply.

Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden,

Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood

Teach us to care and not to care

Teach us to sit still

Even among these rocks,

Our peace in His will

And even among these rocks

Sister, mother

And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea,

Suffer me not to be separated

And let my cry come unto Thee.

         ~ T.S. Eliot

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NOVITIATE

 

Buddha’s eyes faceted:

the moon aware

throughout the horizon –

novice takes a walk,

leaving pen and paper

behind,

not worrying over

poems for this century,

but keeping

the vows

in constancy.

The night sky draped

in monk's robes

hover in the periphery

of lilies and lotuses

blooming –

chastening the wind

that demons ride

for flight,

entering

the master's dream.

no sutra could free

the mind

from fears

spiked by memories.

For how can faces

be purged

of shadows

and exiled

to another land?

         ~ Jaime Dasca Doble

 

WHERE THE MUSE FAILS

 

And I hear them whispering. They

carry the covert codes in the cacophony

of migrant birds, bats and crickets. At dusk,

the drifting leaves surrender

to the wind’s rupturing gust.

Into the brush of night, a scythe moon

reveals the sudden fall –

love, like a woman calling from a bush;

dread, like a merman crying out from a spring.

Pausing upon a path, the sight of ravens

pierces my eyes, and the incandescence

of space devours the absence of insight.

I view the enduring darkness, and the words alter

one after another upon a trick of mirrors –

graveyards beating themselves

into a shore of broken corals,

pubs masking the hours with the hauling shadows

of strangers. Between toil and memory,

talebearers and presences, a mosaic solitude seals

the furnace from within, and then, nothing remains.

It is where all my poetry comes to a halt.

         ~ Jaime Dasca Doble

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I had the honor of sharing time with Keith during his final week of life. Last Sunday he spoke many powerful words; helping me to understand that because he was at peace with life, he could also be at peace with death.  Here is the poem he inspired in me:

 

 

IN THE END, THERE IS ONLY PEACE

 

The meaning of life is love, Keith said

And in the end, there is only peace.

We are one, we are one, we are one, he said

And in the end, there is only peace.

I silently pause in the space between breaths

In this moment that holds all time

For the clock that preaches a mere 24 years

Knows nothing of when to die

As a baby embraces the moment of birth

So too, Keith shied not from death

Having imparted great wisdom of love and joy

His bookends of life are honored and blessed.

So turn to your neighbor, someone crying near you

And give them a hug or high-five (yes, right now!)

If we’re able to share our love in this way

With a smile, a hug, a high-five

Keith’s work is done, his cup is full

And he’s never been so alive.

As family and friends, we mourn the loss

But as grateful students, we learn:

If the meaning of life is love,

In the end, there is only peace.

Peace.

~ Michelle Wilson, Keith’s older sister

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