Dream of the East

In a field, I saw a great Guru of the Akali Nihangs, riding on his gray horse, wearing the Dastar Bunga upon his head, and the electric blue Khalsa Swarupa over his body. His eyes, dark and piercing, gazed at me from his handsome dark face. Around his wrists were six silver chakram, and a kirpan in its silver scabbard rested at his side. He spoke a language of a thousand tongues, and I stood petrified. More and more demonstrative his speech became--urging me, demanding me, but to what? Finally, he let out a great yell, kicked his horse and galloped away. I watched him recede into the distance, toward the great sun setting in the west. When he had disappeared completely, darkness reigned, and the stars rode across the sky like the great warrior Gurus of the Akali Nihangs.

Prayer

Lord,

I give to You my flesh and blood.

In exchange, I ask only for my soul.

In the name of all that is holy,

I seek a greater holiness.

As my shadow merges with

the greater darkness of night,

and as my eyes are partially blinded

to a world that is revealed to them

by the self-same light, so do I owe

my existence to that which I cannot

fathom, so do I speak the prayer

of which I cannot comprehend.

This prayer which I speak now

is Your own testament to a love

that is the only law, the only blessing

that a prayer like this one can ask for

and express.

Upon Hearing My Mother Sing

My mother is singing in the basement 

as she irons my father’s clothes.

I listen, anxious, for I know 

the potential of that voice, though she does not.

My mother, at sixty-six, sings 

like a shy child—hesitantly, self-consciously—

but her voice is rich, like a heavily silted portion 

of the Amazon. 

Filled with the stuff of life, 

it yearns, and aches. It is textured,

like the bark of an evergreen oak, 

and tells a tale of a long-hidden desire 

and fearful love. 

It is a scarred voice, and when I hear it, 

my heart aches as I hope 

that the sustained note 

that has never stopped rising within her

will finally be heard.

News

News travels fast in this new world.

One minute, I am enjoying the words

of the ancient Chinese master Wang Wei,

and the next, I am being informed that
Jack Thomas, a man I have never met,

is in the hospital after suffering a 

heart attack.

I do hope he recovers, but

let this weary soul have some peace.

With so much bombardment,

I'll end up just like Jack Thomas!

Christmas Poem

It was Christmas night—one could see the snow

falling outside from the window in our den

where a fire was burning on the hearth.

I was enjoying the company of friends,

when, thinking all my guests had arrived,

I was surprised to hear a knocking on my front door. 

I went to see and, standing there upon the step 

was an old man with a long gray beard and kindly face—

his eyes were round and black as tree ornaments

and he was dressed poorly, in a long, ragged coat,

but did not seem the least bit cold.

When I opened the door, his face lit up in a smile

that was bright as the morning star.

“Merry Christmas!” he said in a rumbling, kindly voice

that was as clear and bold as the sound of Gabriel’s horn.

“Merry Christmas,” I said. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Shyly, like a bashful child, he shook his head.

“Actually, I have something for you,” he said, 

and he held out his hand, and in it I saw:

an ancient looking penny. 

“Take it,” he said.

I picked the penny up. 

“Look at the date.” 

I read: “1925.” 

“That’s the year,” said the man,

“that my father was born. It’s been my lucky penny all these years. 

I’m giving it to you.”

“But why?” I asked, completely amazed. 

“Have I done anything to deserve it?”

The man smiled. “You’re surrounded by people this Christmas night.

Because of my own foolishness, I am alone. 

I have been relying on luck for far too long.

Now I must learn to be a good man on my own.

I will start by giving you my penny, 

in the hopes that it will serve you better than it has me.”

I thanked the man and he went on his way.

I keep the penny on the mantle above the fireplace—

to remind me of my great luck—to this day.