She lifted her head from her lap
and asked me if the dead live on.
We have hope, certainly, I said.
We can find some peace,
but it looks like we were meant to die.
Who would give life to us after this one
if not mothers and fathers?
It is fashionable to reject a father of life.
Maybe that fashion is misleading.
Be joyful when you die,
no matter how anxious your waiting,
how long your wondering.
She put her face back in her lap.
I watched her head shake. Sobbing.
I tried to remember some of the things
taught to me when young. Maybe my memory
had changed the teachings. Maybe
I understood differently now that I had seen suffering.
If glory is to be revealed, joy will help
you to see it more clearly.
She liked some of that.
Every day, abound in joy,
even if it is the day you first begin to die.
It takes some days to get used to.
Practice the living of a next life.
All the happy ones before you saw it this way.
Let your desire
place you in the great temple of hope.
Days will find room for peace.
She asked me if there was much else to do.
A couple of things, but I would mention them later.
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Blogs I Follow
- The Flyleaf Wordsmith
- Real as the Streets
- Site Title
- Diary of an Aesthete
- Boundless Blessings by Kamal
- Wings Of Poetry
- l i g h t room
- Minal Dalal Co-Creator
- Mauna Sangha
- hedgerow: a journal of small poems
- Sacred Touches
- Sat Sangha Salon
- Writers together
- Makaitah Rogue
- Travelling Krishnaite