my eyes are not me
i am not watching you across the room
my ears are not me
i am not listening to your voice
my nose, my tongue, my body and my mind
are not me
your perfume, your words, your hips and loving thoughts are not intoxicating
me
this poem is not me
——————————————————————————–
poem inspired by
Chapter: “Tears of Happiness”, From Old Path, White Clouds, Thich Nhat Hanh, © 1991
my eyes are not me
my ears are not me
my nose, my tongue, my body and my mind
are not me
that which i see is not me
that which i hear is not me
that which i smell, taste, touch and think are not me
seeing is not me
hearing is not me
smelling, tasting, touching, and thinking are not me
the element of earth is not me
the elements water, fire, air, space and consciousness are not me
i am not bound or restrained by the elements
birth and death cannot touch me
i smile because i have never been born
and i will never die
birth does not give me existence
death does not give me existence
death does not take existence away
——————————————————————————–
Thus spoke Venerable Sariputta,
Chapter: “Tears of Happiness”, From Old Path, White Clouds, Thich Nhat Hanh, © 1991
let me be your flamethrower
when darkness moves in to stay
and clarity is unclear
let me be your burning angel in the night
when your heart is dark with loss
i’ll be your starburst at dawn
welcoming the new day so you can shake off past grievances
i’ll be a candle in your sadness
and a beacon in your darkest dreams
take me down into the abyss and
hold me up high so you
can burn away illusion
and send despair packing
let me be your flamethrower
- dennis landi © 2008
i have an announcement
groupies wanted
i need an information technology groupie. she should be delighted with the latest internet buzz and be able to back-up my hard-drive on a weekly basis
i need a dance groupie. she should be conversant in hip-hop, 90’s grunge, 80’s new wave, and 70’s disco
i need an engineering groupie with a perky attitude who can debug my code, deploy my servers and trouble-shoot customer requests with a cheerful demeanor.
i need a poetry groupie who will make sure that i always punctuate my poems like e e cummings and who likes to drink tea or coffee or wine or tequila depending on the time and place
i need a spiritual groupie who can show me her dharma, help me watch my breath, discuss social mindfulness and explain to me again why i shouldn’t eat meat.
i need a theater groupie. property managers encouraged to apply.
NO DRAMA QUEENS
i need a visual art groupie who can frame and hang art-work, make me a list of the top fifty gallerists in the city and tell me to my face that my current work-in-progress is crap
i need an environmentally conscious groupie who can help me write the next global warming report for al gore. (i made this last bit up.)
i need a literary groupie who will enthusiastically proof-read my latest novel and tell me not to punctuate everything like e e cummings
i need a socially conscious groupie. her curiosity about all things should be contagious.
I need a photography groupie comfortable with color or black and white. Extreme wide angle or zoom lens.
swift advancement for the right individual
apply here.
- dennis landi © 2008
She left him in the blackness before dawn when silence breathes heavy on the summer air. He remembered her as a keen loss, then her memory came to him like the death of a cousin distantly related and finally as a half remembered dream of sweetness on his lips.
She died but only in metaphor. She cheated but only in romance. She lived but only in the dreams of the stone temples of expectation, insincere and uncomprehending youth.
- dennis landi © 2007
“Forget me not”, crooned the wind through the canyons. “Never”, whispered the girl on the ledge. Her hair whipped her face and hid her eyes from the sky.
“Forget me not”, sighed the peaks cloaked in night. “Never”, she sang, dancing into the air, for she weighed no more than an echo of her voice. And her voice weighed less than the thought of the darkest angel raising his face toward heaven to catch a glimpse of her descent.
And she came like a comet, or a fiery bolt thrown from the war engines of the cleverest of men.
“Forget me not” said God.
“Never”, she said, “never”.
-dennis landi ©2006
what have you got at the end of the day
when the maid is paid and she’s gone away with
your rags and the tags
of industry, the blood and the
brains of enemies, the loves and the
lies of the infidel, the tells
and the sighs. infant shell. dreams.
what have you got at the start of the night
when the leaves fall like bells and the stars
fail their light. what have you got to keep at
bay the warp and the weft of black
dismay coming down the street like it owns
the town and knows my name and stares me down.
what have you got to lift me up to lift
me up to lift me up. what have you got.
- © dennis landi 2006
