Disciplining the Poem

I'm sweating worms trying to
Keep this poem alive.
But the words are like stubborn children
That keep storming off the page.
I'm trying to keep the verbs in line,
But they're pathologically obsessed
With the objects, who are weeping
Because they're jealous of the subjects.
What they need is some sort of loud diversion
To capture their attention.
Some teachers will whistle.
Being a poet, inserting the word "God"
Will do the trick!

The Coffee Mug

I came to learn about the connection
Between mind and body,
To learn from one of the great masters
Of the yogic teachings,
But I can't seem to get my mind
Off of the coffee mug
Atop the gray foam yoga block
In front of him on the floor.
It is so simple--white, curved, ceramic,
Steaming from what I suspect is the herbal tea inside it.
It, like me, is breathing ever so gently,
But evenly--I can almost hear it purr.
It emanates such calm.
All of this information being sent my way from the master
I cannot receive.
All I will ever be able to recall
Is the steam emanating from this coffee mug--
Its perfect breath, and its
Dying warmth.

Upon Seeing the Artist at a Cafe

In his repose, he is straining for something great.
In his languidness, there is something fierce.
Always eyes that are watching,
Searching for flaws and beauty.
He wears his calm as a disguise.
Inside, he is restless,
Running up to higher ground
To escape the fire consuming his soul.
One corner of his mouth always rises in a gentle smile
Whenever we happen to lock eyes.
"Life isn't easy for us spies," he seems to say.
Knowing that he is only half serious,
I nod my head and carry on my way.

5 AM

There is a fly that keeps landing on my ear
As I try and sleep.
I am watching the digital clock on the floor--
The numbers seem to tell the story of my life.
I try reading them backwards to see
If that too will have some meaning.
But I find myself simply going
Back and forth, and soon
I am dizzy.
The alarm will sound soon,
And I haven't had a wink of sleep.
I turn and look at that little brass Buddha
On my nightstand.
It is weeping honey.

Ark

There are eels in the soup--somebody call Wildlife Emergency Services!
Besides, the strawberries are crawling with spiders,
And the possum is enjoying a bag of Tostitos
On my living room couch.
He's trying to figure out the remote
And is throwing a tantrum.
Monkeys are raiding the liquor cabinet
And I'm afraid the orangutan will start shaking the baby
If it doesn't stop crying from the frogs
In its diaper.
Where did all these animals come from?
My eldest daughter let them in
Along with the Jehova's Witness
And Noah, who came with him.

Breaking the Ice

Donning a neck tie and drinking a spritzer,
Standing away from the gasps and the laughter,
Our hero is peering through the block of ice
That separates him from the lovely dame
Dressed in bulls-eye red across the room.
Perhaps, if he stares hard enough,
The ice will melt, like taking it within his hands
And melting it with the warmth of his skin.
But no, levity is his gift,
And he'll wield is like a pick
As he makes his way across the room
Thinking of something to say.
Finally, he is near her--
She's standing aloof, though the smell of
Her perfume shows that she is anything but.
"Hello," he says.
She turns to him--she is cross-eyed.
His heart turns to ice.
"Hello," she says.
The ice is broken.

Disillusionment

I have folded back my eyes
And eloped with my ears.
I have welcomed humanity as a gift
And accepted the daily news as the word of God.
I have gasped the death-defying gasp,
Awakening from sleep, forsaking my dreams.
How hard we fight to live!
And yet, how easy it is to simply be.
Someone, or something, is playing a trick on us.
This is what we tell ourselves,
Knowing full well that it is we ourselves
Who are the tricksters.

God's Apprentice

Often, I am asked the question,
"What do you do for a living?"
I always say, "I am God's apprentice."
Naturally, this always arouses quizzical responses.
"What does that entail?" I am asked.
"I bring Him tea when He is thirsty,
Food when He is hungry,
And I learn how to create worlds."
"You can't make worlds, silly man!" I am always told.
But I can, and I will,
As soon as God lets me go
Out on my own.
It's not a hard thing to understand.
Each life holds the potential for infinite worlds,
And if we're lucky, by the time we die,
One will have been consummated.