the eyes of six cats

Lou Ros

i am making dreams from scraps of paper that i find on the floor of the bus 

there is a lot of folding involved and a song 

the other passengers are watching me the way you watch a child laugh at soap bubbles 

each dream is like a puzzle with a thousand pieces and no straight edges 

when the puzzle is complete i then must live out that dream 

it's busy work 

the bus becomes a ship and it comes to me that i am dreaming all of this 

the sea is rough tonight 

tossing the ship 

and now my dreams have become scattered again 

bits of paper puzzle pieces are everywhere 

even in my damp pockets 

the ship has arrived at my bus stop 

i rise to exit feeling very empty

james lee jobe

LINK: "Loom," a poem by Bradley Trumpfheller

We all have buddhanature. We have all the qualities needed for the path. If we don’t believe this, it will be very difficult for us to embark because we have no foundation from which to go forth. It’s really very simple. The buddhadharma is not based on dogma.

Jetsunma Tenzin Palmo

I am making a new trail in an old forest. Stride by stride, step by step, I mark the earth with the memory of my passing. I am a flag from a brand new nation. I am a large truck that isn't for sale. I can maim and wound with only a glance. I can heal with my touch and my smile. If I were a song, radio stations would not play me for fear of losing listeners. With each step, the earth rises up to meet me. The forest is quiet today, and these pines tower over me like silent giants. What can I do but walk? 

james lee jobe 

LINK: a poem by Wanda Coleman, "Beaches. Why I Don’t Care For Them."

We don’t practice to attain enlightenment, just as we don’t eat or breathe to be alive. Because we’re alive, we breathe. Because we’re alive, we eat. Because we’re enlightened, we do zazen. 

Roshi Bernie Glassman and Rick Fields, “Instructions to the Cook”

Chew the eyes slowly. You have lined up the eyes of six cats on a plate, and you have in your hand a spoon made of the finest silver. The room is new to you, before this, your father never let you in here. You, who have wintered in the dark and summered in the warm light. This is your Chernobyl, your Dachau. Shame and denial are twin births in family after family. The honey is all gone now, eaten by the barbarians, armed with rifles. Here, the bees serve an evil queen. Here, the hive speaks an imperfect English. A chill, born of fear, not temperature, fills the silent room. What can you do? You push the eyes onto the spoon with one of your dirty fingers, and you lift it to your mouth and eat.

james lee jobe  

LINK: "Crown," a poem by Gboyega Odubanjo

Lou Ros

Hello. James Lee here. If you enjoy this blog, and I hope that you do, please consider making a donation through the BUY ME A COFFEE button below. It's done safely online, and just takes a moment.

Thanks! -jlj