The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can't breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

from Poetry of Presence An Anthology of Mindfulness Poems

Do cover your cough or your sneeze,
Dispose of hankies safely please.
Wash your hands immediately,
With soap and water thoroughly
For twenty seconds if not more,
And more frequently than before.

Disinfect ‘oft used surfaces,
Refrain from touching your faces,
Leave space between you and others;
At least six feet or two metres.
Stay at home where safe you shall be
To best protect your family.
The governments guidance obey
And “flatten the curve” we just may.

On each of us there’s an onus
To stop the spread of this virus;
We’re in this together truly,
Do your part! Act responsibly!

She’s smiling.
That soft smile,
Like a whisper of hope
In a world drained of light.

She’s laughing.
A mix of all kinds,
Like a chorus of bells
After the church wedding.

She’s speaking now.
Her voice,
Like a sail or a stream of smoke,
Caught up in the wind.

Here he comes
His strides,
Like ticks of a time bomb
Set within her peace.

She’s silent
Her mouth,
Like a vault full of riches
Is in lock-down.

She laughs,
But it’s bruised,
Like the bulged knuckle
Of his left ring finger.

She smiles,
But it is dull,
Like their worn rings clashing
Upon their linked hands.

They walk away,
Neither happy,
But she will stay in those arms;
the ones that grip her too firmly.

Show me the meaning of encounter.
Each person one meets
tries to retell one’s story.
People want to make life their own;
chip it down to a fable or verse.
I sat across the table from ego
trying to convince me I wasn’t real;
to persuade me that I didn’t only just emerge
from the ether of nothing’s existence,
a glossing over in the eyes of the mask
at each utterance of Truth passing these lips.
What is this?
A piece which loathes the reality
of claiming one’s own inheritance.
Sick, psychotic fantasy.
Will you go to an insane person
who holds a degree in the study of the senseless
to help you decide what you are?
You are bound to find trouble.

I’m all out of tears
They’ve dried through the years
I thought they were a sign of weakness
Yet I continue to portray my meekness
In surrender, I close my eyes to pray
Even still the end may never go my way
Pain and loneliness overflow within me
If you hand me a rope, I’d gladly find a tree
The sound of distress breaks through my emptiness
There is no other topic I feel compelled to address

My hands do things I’m not aware of

They hide my keys
In the pockets
Of freshly laundered pants

Behind
Under
Inside many
Many
Pieces of furniture

Dangling from my bicycle lock
(For 3 hours)

Hanging from the front door lock
(All day long)

By a flower growing
In the crack
Of a sidewalk
That I had knelt down
To examine

In the fridge
Yeah
I know

My hands lock my keys up
In the backyard shed

In the trunk of a car

In a car’s ignition
With the motor running
No joke

And of course
Inside my house
While I am
Outside my house

One day my hands
Unbeknownst to me
Will lock all of the doors
And throw all of the keys
Away

You are a valve I can turn
to open the flow of love
into my day
into my heart.