NOT MY CIRCUS, NOT MY MONKEYS: Five new poems...

21

I Am Where I Want to Be

No more questing in the dry pages

of lost horizons, or climbing mountains

in the Hindu Kush searching for a fantasy;

and no more meditating in walled Tibetan caves

or collecting wild honey like a mendicant Sufi,

because I am where I want to be.

I could be sunning on a sandy beach in Florida,

cycling in Province, or sipping espresso in Tuscany,

exploring new writers for new thoughts and taking

up hiking or hobbies like Tai Chi and Mediterranean

cooking, but life no longer beckons me because

I am where I want to be.

Not every acorn that falls off the oak will grow

into its own tree, only the seeds that take root will

become what they are encoded to be; so it is with

every soul that takes root in the humble soil of

its own garden, growing where it has been

planted to become what it’s meant to be.

  

22

Self-Murder

The lady was in tears:

she could not negate

the self she had become

trying desperately to undo

millions of years of evolution,

to her Master’s indifference

who responded with a coldness

that made my blood boil.

“Try harder,” said the Master,

but the harder the lady tried

to negate her own identity,

the more her soul resisted;

and in despair, she overdosed

on sleeping pills to become

one with Non-Being just

to please her Master

of Nothingness.

 23

Lunch with a Friend

I stopped in just to say hello to my friend

and neighbor who had come up from Toronto

to his cozy cottage in Georgian Bay that he

had built with his own hands. Born in Calabria

where I came from with my family when I

was five, Tony and I made wine together last

summer and shared it over the winter and

spring, and we’ll be making wine again in

the new season, and when I dropped in from

my bike ride he was roasting some lamb on

his barbeque, along with mushrooms and

red peppers, and he invited me to lunch with

him and Maria whose husband died of cancer

a few years ago. My friend’s wife dropped

dead of a heart attack while building the cottage,

and after five or six years of a bad relationship

with a Sicilian widow who couldn’t control her

drinking, he met Maria at a wedding reception

for a mutual Italian acquaintance, and now

they live together for companionship as many

widows often do, which took their children

time to get used to; and with each passing year

they grow more intimate and respectful of each

other’s quirks and habits and even laugh at

them now in front of me. Lunch was a simple

feast of love of food and sharing, an Italian

custom like no other, and I had to politely stop

Maria four or five times from over-serving me,

reminding her of my mother saying to guests

at our family table, “Manga, manga.” I loved

the freshly-picked asparagus risotto with the

barbequed lamb, large-capped mushrooms,

and long red peppers, and the simple lettuce

salad with salt and pepper and oil and vinegar

dressing, and crusty Calabrese bread just like

my mother used to make every Wednesday

morning to soak up all the juices from my plate,

and a glass of red wine to toast our lunch and

friendship; and, what I really enjoyed because

Penny and I don’t drink it at home, a tiny cup

of espresso coffee with a drop of Anisette and

a tiny spoonful of sugar, and after lunch Tony

and I sat in his garage with the door wide open

soaking up the spring sun and talking, I mostly

listening to his life story, wishing that my father

had been as adaptive and resourceful, and I

couldn’t have asked for a nicer neighbor in

our new home in Georgian Bay.

 24

The Coiled Serpent of My Soul

I didn’t plan it, nor could I have done so:

when the time is right life gives birth to new

meaning in the experience, and writing my last

inspired musing took me by surprise; not that

I wanted it to be my last, they had served the

purpose they were born to serve and the coiled

serpent of my soul sprung with such surprise that

I was awash in a soothing balm of calm—no more

demands to feed the hungry beast that turned its

nose at the banquet table of sacred purpose, no

more waiting for the divine bird to light upon the

branches of my mind; just the resolve that it was

time to move on to another path to serve the soul 

of the great unwashed: poetry, stories, and novels 
to warm the cold beast’s heart, and one wonders 
why the secret is kept secret from the masses 
that want the truth but can’t bear it when
it is served to them on a platter.

  

25

Weasel Words

It’s not the word you have to blame,

by calling it a weasel; the poor creature

did no harm. He sucks the meat out

of the egg to honor its instinct for

survival and is true to its own nature;

but man—o, what a paradox he is! —

who is both what he is and what he is

not, and when he sucks the meat out

of words to have his cake and eat it too,

it’s not the word that is to blame by

calling it a weasel, but the man

for his deception.