A teacup in a storm
can remain on a dining table
on a slab of concrete
or land in a field thirty miles away,
unbroken.
This is like Tao.
The standing still in chaos.
The sweeping through in a rage.
The blowing in without warning.
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Impermanence
[For Sam Breashears]
On thought’s peripheries
Trailing into smoke
An artist aches for stories
That sharpen and provoke.
I clutch my tattered cloak
And rattle a tin cup
Feeling lost and broke
While winter fills me up.
A beggar in the dark
Listens for some coin
The moon might break apart
So visions may conjoin.
Troubled by this sweep
Of incoherence, blind,
Before I get some sleep
I need to find my mind.
[Disposable Poem November 3, 2012]
Dr. Mike
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