POETRY

The Riddle

A poem about the search for Self, beyond the images of the mind

what a strange dream I seem to be living; a riddle that passes as images across the screen of the mind: . . .

birth

I see only a darkness and hear a rhythm of swishing; safe and secure am I in this darkness and sound.

yet the peace becomes shattered as a great desire arises, and the need to depart the darkness pulls me out.

and through a gateway of a thousand strong hands my head emerges into a place of blazing light that sears my eyes:

I want to scream, and the slap upon my bloodied body allows the scream to explode with a resentful fury.

however, as the scream threatens to tear this frail body apart, a large mound of soft warm flesh comes before me, and two orbs look at me that shine with a light of recognition and welcome.

the scream falls silent and falls back into the darkness . . .

crawling

across a floor, a spongy brown, leaving drool marks behind like the slime of a traveling snail, I explore my world.

like a whale whose great maw is wide to feast upon microscopic creatures, so too my mouth opens, ready to suck upon the first thing I happen upon.

a creature of big blue glassy eyes, whose furry arms, ever extended, calls to me: I follow my mouth and latch upon my silent friend . . .

preschool

the sun shines bright and the grass shimmers with an emerald green beneath my little feet. the golf club I clutch, though tiny compared to my father’s club, seems like the club of a giant’s in my little hands.

and the plastic ball, made of little holes, looks like a world of tiny windows. towards the sprinkler hole I hit the tiny world with the giant’s club.

the world speeds by, missing. again the world propelled passes the hole, like a misguided comet hurling through empty space.

but the next stroke the world falls in; I smile as my father looks on, smiling . . .

darkness fills the room, broken up by the light that runs across the wall, as each car on the street passes by.

the closet is open and where there were shirts hungry monsters now await my sleeping.

beneath my bed, downstairs in the living room, where my parents sip martinis dry, the anger seeps upward through the floorboards:

I close my eyes to the monsters and to the anger, and turn on the cartoons in my head. then fly off in a rocket ship to the moon . . .

elementary school

an island of apple pie in a sea of melted ice-cream, my cars and army men awaiting my return upon the floor;

how safe I feel here, at my nanny’s. but each day her face grows a wrinkle anew, and there seems to be someone scratching at the door.

I plead for her not to answer, and for a long while she pretends not to hear.

then one day she must have heard; for she is gone, and I see only a door open wide . . .

from my paper where I draw tanks and airplanes, in lieu of notes, I watch the hands of the clock as they drag across its face.

with anticipation and imagination I await: perhaps she may talk to me. the bell rings and with pounding heart, and string-less knees, I run to the crosswalk where I know she will cross; i avert my eyes from my classmates lest they deem my mind.

she comes, my heart tears apart into a thousand birds, each taking wing. she nears, her silent sneakers pounding with the echo of doom in my brain. her sweet perfume grabs hold of my nose and pulls me like a stumbling stooge.

my mouth opens to say hello and perhaps I might dare to ask if she cares for an ice-cream; but she keeps her head down; I’m not in her eyes, and like a ghost, with an open mouth of dust, I watch her pass by . . .

high school

‘Fagnaro, Fagnaro,’ the raping of my name assaults my ears; syringes of adrenaline pump in my veins; my temples pulse with the beating of enraged gorillas:

until the anger blasts apart the floorboards. and in a reddened darkness my fists, like thunderbolts, smash down upon cartilage; and before me gushes a nose of blood. my legs crumble, my stomach rises, so weakened I feel by this power . . .

only minutes left, blood trickles down my leg. my eyes alert, focused only upon the ball. like a cat I crouch, wait, ready to pounce.

the ball comes, a minute left, up by one, and one on one, only I and the attacker exist. he shoots, and like a bird flying in hope of freedom, the ball propels towards the corner of the goal;

yet, in premonition, I lunge and my claws clutch at the dying bird. and the roar of the onlookers feed my being, for perhaps she is looking on . . .

she lies under me, her clothes strewn upon the floor, I fumble between her legs, not knowing what to do.

I feel my cock enter her and hear her groan. my god, I think, I’m finally doing it!

I look up from the living room floor as I pump and sweat: 4:45 the digital clock screams at me; 5:00 my father will thunder home, and in fear I let go of my essence:

what does it matter, anyway? it isn’t her . . .

university

far away, far away from home: drinking buddies, girls of enticement, classes of boredom.

nothing holds me, nothing anchors me to the ground, to my self.

in the smoke of a joint, answers arise, but become meaningless as the smoke dies. the bitter taste of the mushroom brings new sight to my eyes, and what was dull becomes funny, and what was funny becomes pain.

but it is the sweetness of the drink that lets loose the fool, who is free from all morality, and joyfully I let fly the abuse, and pretend to make love to her.

but she is not her; only a nameless one I find in my bed.

yet, more than just the freedom from my goodness, it is the oblivion that I seek that comes in the wake from the flood of the bottle, to lose myself in the safety of the darkness that echoes in my soul.

yet always it is only the pounding of my head that remains in the end . . .

Marines OCS

the safe walls of academic death collapse, a pathless land lies before me.

my heart quakes as my mind searches for a road. suddenly, my mind remembers the giant club and the world of windows and my father looking on: so an officer candidate I become, to live my father’s dream.

yet each night, I lie upon my creaseless bunk and cry as I review the day; another day of being trained to kill.

who am I? I cry in the silence of the night. where do I belong?

I think of returning home but see the image of my father looking on: I can’t miss the hole again.

so I will myself ill and honorably I am discharged, like semen at 4:45 . . .

Peace Corps

the African people dance all around me in welcome, that I, the dollar avatar, have been sent to help, to bring development to their village.

beer they bid me drink and roasted chicken they place before me. a sister of one is presented to ease my loneliness, I, a lone male in a strange land. but nobody can fill this hole in my being.

away from my home with no family, no friends, no definitions of others to offer me a familiar foundation, I fall and plummet into a great abyss.

like the dying cobra I held in my hand one day, as its guts wiggled out of its skin . . .

Nepal

alone upon a yak-dunged trail, the drone of the wind resonates in my ears, the abyss grows even deeper and darker.

bent under pack and dark, despairing thoughts I trudge the trail, my body, my soul, numb under the weight of the journey, as the gathering clouds speed by the granite teeth of the Himalayas.

all of a sudden, like the sun breaking out from behind the dark clouds, or like the eruption of a volcano after a millennium of pressure, a knowing rushes up from my soul and fells me like a tree to the stony ground.

all around me and within me, just as space fills and surrounds a bowl, I feel a Presence.

and this Presence is like a soft, warm mound of flesh with welcoming eyes; and that of the pride of watching the world fall into the hole.

and the tears of such remembrance fall like rain upon a parched and suffocating land.

and in this moment I know home am I . . .

fatherhood

now, no longer in search of her, having found my home, I find her by my side with the gift of a crawling and drooling son, and a cat always ready to pounce.

and though I hear the scratching at the door of all those who would come near, I say, come if you would, knocker at the door, for life’s riddle I now know:

I am in every stanza; I am in every name; and all these images come and go, across the I that remains the same . . .

Thank you for reading this very long poem. Here are some much shorter poems in which you might be interested.

Check out my website, mindfulness-meditation-techniques.com for learning about various meditation practices and reading more articles and other writings. I have authored nine books, including The Teachings of Yama: A Conversation with Death. Visit my Author Page to know more. And if you liked this artwork of mine in this article you can see more on Pinterest. You can follow me on Facebook.