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Egyptian hieroglyphic characters: (photo by Terry Seskis)
“altar” + “to pray or praise.”
"Divine am I inside and out, and I make holy whatever I touch
or am touch'd from,
The scent of these armpits aroma finer than prayer..."
-- Walt Whitman
“The fragrance of virtue stands alone, without equal.”
-- Buddha
* * * * *
THE SEVENTH PRAYER
My first prayer is - no one gets hurt.
The second - greedy bastards lose their shirts.
Third - those who only claim to pray be divinely corrected.
Fourth - the brainwashed be un-infected.
Fifth - to neither expect nor not expect the unexpected.
Sixth - these prayers emanate like the scent of honeysuckle,
the sound of downpouring rain on a lightning lit meadow,
the sight of doves lifting up in unison
sunlight on their wings nearly blinding our eyes.
No more need to pray for peace.
Across the planet,
aromas finer than prayer.
* * * * *
REPORT TO WALLY 6-12-2004
Dear Dad
Took a bus ride uptown
by your old office overlooking
Washington Square Park
there were still people there
in the sunlight
under a jet blue sky
with children on park slides and swings
and a man sitting on a bench
looked like grandfather,
and i couldn't explain how that happens so often, yet it does.
A wide-smilin' black lady got on the bus
like all was cool with the world
and it's folks like her that make it so
though i must report that sometimes
the seeming epidemic of corruption and fear
has many running for cover
under a jet blue sky though far from where
the children slide and most folks just keep on walkin', hummin'
on a sunny June afternoon.
And i must say thanks for all your kindnesses
that still linger on like a haze one can almost touch
or a breeze one can feel,
and i'm glad to report
that there is yet much light and kindness in this world,
and so much so that
there is no reason to quit now.
* * * * *
BIRDS BEFORE DUSK AT THE TRAIN STATION
there's something exciting
about picking up someone you know at the train station,
the long shiny metal cars suddenly sliding in
amid the trees next to the town before the sun goes down
a faceless machine
then all those people peeling out,
with their flesh and souls
to loved ones, dinner dates, the routine going home from work
or alone on the steps arriving from somewhere for the first time
and building a new life…
the pauses of expectation
as the doors slide open,
flurry of moments of meetings-
the way birds all gather before dusk then suddenly are gone
what i really know is
there's someone on board,
another poet (and in between the time when the linked-cars appear
from nowhere then disappear as quick)
he's there with a knapsack and handshake
and a story about a book he was reading about Africa
though it really could happen anywhere
because you have to be born somewhere
in a town perhaps where the sun shines,
the people go on with their lives
from one place to another
and if you're lucky
or just plain determined to have a good time
the promise of evening holds a thrill in your heart
the way birds fly off to who knows where
to order books
© 2005 - 2009 Walter E. Harris III
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