Kevlar Vest

We grow famished with duty, hold a boney line.
Do the right thing. 
Say the right word.
Live the right moment.

Here we go, combing days for purpose, an army of sea urchins. 

Swooning for octopus, supple and keen this one – could we be that? 
Could we trellis darkness with ink trails like the one you climb now,
word by word?
Can duty sing beauty like catgut on wood?
Can it upholster days in both silk and sacking?
Make Tuesday a rich brocade.
Wednesday, corduroy,
Thursday, Friday, Saturday tatted Chantilly lace.
Sunday and Monday matted felt.
It’s a Gordian puzzle – and how did it happen?
A march for Maslow’s dream – our bruises the crown and scepter,
climbing, climbing and where would we be?
Not Avalon nor Shangri-La, not nirvana nor Eden,
crawling to another frontier – a fresh start.
Out of sticks and stones and mended bones, we light another fire.
And this Kevlar vest, we unbutton it – notion by stoic notion.
right view and intention
right speech and action and livelihood
right effort and mindfulness, even to distraction and
we stop marching -- for 
there is light leaking in,
a soul shine, see,
Kuan Yin,

she holds the mirror.


Tracy P. said…
Reading this reminds me of the Oliver poem I have in my bathroom: "Mysteries, Yes." She writes about how we "come from the delight or the scars of damage to the comfort of a poem." Thank you, Rosa, for reminding me to turn to a poem. This one fits the bill. I love you.

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