the Blessed Sap of My Existence

Wew . . . must be feeling old today or something . . .




I reach a half century inside my livingness palm,
    notice how the heart beats differently,
          how the muscles begin to sag,
    notice a quickening pulse within the mind’s
          continual bleating.

Ah . . .  but do I see things more clearly,
    does my internal mandala get any closer
          to forming a perfect circle . . .
            probably not.

Oh yes, this life form of aging flesh . . .
    growing bald and wrinkled,
          finding it more difficult to climb
              the stairs,
      still with a multitude of burning questions,
            concerned with comprehension
                of the void.

Oh the magnified necessity of depleting the ego,
      the mummification of inane selfness,
          turning over and over inside my skull,
              wanting to get closer,
            more in sync with primary essence
                  of understanding.

I have listened to Sung poets and Shelley,
    have heard the loon on a lake
          when a new dawn traced the image of my face
                with April dewdrops,
        but incandescence of the soul appears
                    enveloped still,
              clouds and mist-haze continues
          to smother any reflection
                of insight.

Ah . . . ah silent whisper, unblemished sacred rose
    that blooms between my eyes,
          seeking rays of moonlight,
                thirsty, petalled in the dry
            parched soil . . .
      tonight I will try to rediscover
            your pure, velvet grace
    and pay more attention to the blessed sap

                  of my existence.