Dreaming The Old Man

Through slanting doors and broken windows
odd furniture in dim rooms

old books and roses rotting with age
I follow you,

charts and crumpled maps and paper
glitter like a lost hope–

Sudden sky and wide water
reeds along a shore

under a silver willow you call to the other side.

No limb or vine to hold my feet
my boyhood swept away

to a green recess of memory
nothing to pull me back

only rock and sand, sky and air bathed in amber light,

Peace, I am with you
looking in your old eyes, stretching out a hand

sinking in a river of night
transparent stones on the bottom of a lucid pool

I glide in bright shadows
fish swimming

in and out our one and separate selves

 

 

Green Lake Heron by Rob KasheyROB PICS 430

 

 

 

 

 

 

All Photos  by Rayn Roberts

Apparition by Rob Kashey

Apparition by RR

Burdens

Two monks returning to a monastery in the evening

It had rained
Puddles of water had collected on the road

At one place a beautiful woman
Was unable to cross the road because of a puddle

The elder monk lifted and carried her across
Leaving her on the other side; then went his way

Later that evening, the younger monk approached
“Sir, we cannot touch women.”

The elder said, “Yes, brother.”
“Then why did you carry that woman on the road today?”

The elder smiled
“I left her on the road; why are you are still carrying her?”

Zen Lesson ~ Anon
Edited to Poetic form by Rayn Roberts

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What is There?

What is there in the end but forgiveness
And forgiving one’s self.
What is regret when we cannot go back
To change anything done?
We only move forward
To more change, the slow breakdown
Of the body, aging and death,
There is that, of course, but
The quicker one can do it the better:
Live so the need to forgive is less and less.
It is a gift we give, and when we can, is priceless.

 

tumblr_opi6ecpEKH1qde5xzo1_500Rayn Roberts 2017

After My Mom Died

For for Mary Leary

The cracked world strangely abstract
Flowers panic in the window box
Crows eat the petals of mourning
Unpeaceful Xanax morning,
I should meditate, but this is fine
Poetry calms the storms of afternoon until
A gathering of friends
SOMA Heads looking for a fix in my room
Invisible bandito on the balcony
Nicking my hash
He came to prop me up
Then took my stash, the bastard!

Later, a Las Vegas Cocktail Open Mic
Colorless as a dry heave
Jimmy Jazz is shouting in my head,
“Fuck you and you and you
if you call this is a poetry reading!
This is not a poetry reading!”
This bleeding stuck pig poetry
Banging on a toy-piano poetry
Just throw some glitter on
And slap it to your frig like a cute magnet.

Wait…   from of the heat of hell, genius often rises
And hey, it’s all about self-expression, isn’t it, well, isn’t it?

 

 

Open-Mic