Passages—in memory of Jack Myers
by Marian Aitches
1
One by one, birds fly through the wide hall —
shadows on fire – lit walls
brighter than the night outside.
A swallow soars in by the south door,
traces high rafters. Open sky.
The time it takes to pass to the north end,
span of a life, so said a poet centuries ago.
2
Dia de Los Muertos at Mission Park South —
We speak with Grandma in her grave.
San Antonio light spikes across waxwings
roosting in cedars, trees of the dead.
1896 –1986. Symmetry in numbers, balance of a life —
ridiculous chrysanthemums in a pock – marked urn.
Mama cries. I rise like a note in a song.
3
Life, the dash on the headstone,
space between the birth of light
and the night when her spirit flew.
Standing here, who will know the stories?
The grandmother who lived like a hummingbird —
drunk in a hot pink ocean of penta flowers.
What can a dash say of the music she made?
4
The day you died a white bird drifted into
my kitchen, circled away into night;
bones begged for a come with me
but the spirit said stay. I am here with you.
We will drink red wine under turning trees, remember
leaning back – to – back on October porches —
chrysanthemum explosions on the west wall.
5
Another swallow high in the eaves reaches
the end of the noisy hall, laughter
of men at full tables stopped by a poem
singing fallen heroes and radiant ladies about to grow
dim with grief. No. We want something more —
songs about joy, more hours reciting the light
before dark calls the monster inside.
On Time
by Bruce Spang
Do you hear the soft ohhs in the mist?
These are sighs of God.
They do not matter to the man — late,
no doubt — who taps at his Rolex:
years tumble forward — already 2220,
2060; tomorrow flattens yesterday.
A solitary pigeon pecks at a crumb,
then flaps off, undulant in gray.
What whispers in this mist? — sighs
intoning, too late, too late.
No matter, these are only lines of I – Ching,
little sticks of metaphor.
Two comments on craft taken from his letters to Bruce Spang
Jack Myers
— two comments on craft taken from
his letters to Bruce Spang
I. Form
In my own writing, I strive
to have all the plumbing
and structure in an invisible
broom closet somewhere
on the 30th floor underground.
II. Content
What about those who Transcend love
and become Love,
integrate masculine and feminine
archetypes and become One?
Buddha. Jesus.
Me, someday.
Misogi
by Daryl Morazzini
While the world sleeps, I bath under cold flowing waters, hands clasped in
prayer.
The ancestral spirits are pleased.
OM KA KA KABI SAN MA HAI SOMA KA
While the world sleeps, I powder myself in sweet sandalwood and delicate
cedar.
The body is scented, temple – like.
While the world sleeps, my cats pile fresh – killed mice under the kamaza,
delicate purrs an homage to the sun.
The ears are free to breathe.
While the world sleeps, I give my prayers and prostrations to the Buddhas
and Bosatsus, renewing my vows with warm Kyoto incense.
The spirit is released like rain drops across
chrysanthemum pedals.
OM KA KA KABI SAN MA HAI SOMA KA
While the world sleeps, I swirl red Miso paste into a cracked –forge bowl, adding bitter
sea vegetables and silken tofu.
The stomach chases golden dragons on paper boats.
While the world sleeps, the sun sings the morning chant, Amaterasu’s
golden hues remain a gentle blessing in a red – bibbed Jizo forest to a
childless mother.
The eyes listen for the morning bell.
While the world sleeps, I pour boiled water into an iron tea kettle, bless
with budding Jasmine flowers, springing back to life arms reaching high to
the horizon.
The lungs dream the world alive.
OM KA KA KABI SAN MA HAI SOMA KA
While the world sleeps, and most of the world is asleep, I stumble to my feet,
widen my stance, and awaken Being into the new day with each counted
breath.
The Way gains clarity, like pilgrims discovering a timber trail.