A DOZEN POEMS IN THE TIME OF COVID

JAMES MOORE

 

CONTAGION

Contagion rolls out across the lands

and over the seas

it rides the air

as it jumps the moats of our resistance

scattering the aware before it

consuming the complacent within it

like a spark that starts to spread

a slow burn destroying before it touches

all we hold dear and safe.

Somewhere an old archetype of the apocalypse rides

dryly coughing as it rises to embrace us all

in one of those rare moments

that defines not just a year, or a generation or a life,

but an age when so much is lost so fast

and yet, so much found

of the simple values

we moderns have forgot.

LIFE IN THE TIME OF COVID

This is the end of fun boy, but it’s only begun,

opening credits still rolling and the death knell not done

it’s all just so sad, everyone huddled inside

alone with their internet on a strange kind of ride

when along comes the trickster as a coyote or crow

to tap on your window and say “Time to go!”

but go where it don’t tell us as we walk through the wall

and on down the street right into a mall

where the shops are all empty not an item to buy

’cause the ones there before us were too scared to die

but the brave and the foolish have no fear of death

it’s the place we all go when we run out of breath

as our lungs fill with fluid and our minds clog with fear

when we step through THAT wall Death is closer than near

closer than heart beats, and swifter than thought

it’s the face in the mirror when at last we are caught

between a rock and a hard place or so it does seem,

till that too breaks open and we see it’s a dream

the same one as always, the same as it’s been

with Death on our shoulder His face in a grin

as seers watch from cliff sides points of light in their caves

we ride on a tide, the crest of a knave

of the one who has sown fear, lies and deceit

the smart who control all with their ways of conceit

the idea that they know what is beyond grasp

the taste of a lover, or the bite of an asp

the soft sound of silence, or the color of soul

the age of an infant, or the shape of a whole

these things we can ponder but never will know

despite what they tells us, despite what they show

while the pug in his wisdom is so full of joy

at the fountain of youth he’s such a good boy

no end of fun for the likes of that dog

it’s onward and upward and out through fog . . .

BEYOND FEAR

What is on the other side . . .

what is when all is let go

when fear is passed through

and we let it just flow

to a shore with wet sands

to a hilltop’s broad view

to a bed that is warm

with a love that is true?

What is discovered when all is let go

is it a world of our making

or one we don’t know?

Is it a place of our horrors

or a field of our dreams

or is it something beyond

something we thought it would seem?

When we let go of fear

with wide open arms

will the world hug us back

revealing her charms,

or will we stand all alone

rejected by none

but free, free at last

to shine in the sun.

LEAVE NO TRACE

Step into nothingness

my little one

let the Great Night swallow you whole

be a spark

be a fire

that gently burns away

to leave no trace

when the morning comes.

WITH LIGHT

I walked through the market

but there was nothing I wanted to buy,

nothing I thought I needed,

until the smile

on the faces of a few

gave me what can’t be bought,

and in that moment I drained the full cup

I’d been carefully holding,

and filled it anew

with light.

CREATIVE DESTRUCTION

Life is an endless creative unfolding

each moment giving rise to the next

only by its absolute sacrifice.

So it’s ironic that, as only destruction makes way for creation,

it turns out

it’s best to find we’re wrong

whenever we’re right,

that even the most beautiful bubbles burst,

and the best laid plans collapse

when all our efforts lead to naught.

And yet what is there to do, but

pick up the pieces

and start again,

separate the pieces and make the new.

In this moment we don’t find comfort or happiness

we find freedom

the spaciousness our hearts desire

to seek some happiness within perhaps

or just let it go, let it be,

and seek nothing but what is

endless creation through destruction

endless learning through ignorance

endless patience through frustration

endless compassion through suffering

endless love through disconnection

Until the next moment arises anew.

APRIL FOOL

If I were free

there would be no place I wouldn’t want to go.

I’d go to Hiroshima on the big day to dance in the streets

and leave my Tai Chi shadow on a wall.

I’d go spelunk Kilauea just to feel the 2200-degree heat.

I’d go hold my breath on the moon

to sit and watch the full Earth rise.

I’d go to Sun and back again, because Kilauea was so cool.

I’d go visit your dreams to infect with you with my freedom.

I’d go into your heart to feel what it is to be you

and see what a fool you love.

I’d go down, or up, or in, or out to be with you today

a particle on the cusp of a wave dancing

and laughing at this endless joke we share.

IN THE END

In the Time of Covid

when the main pandemic is

the Dem Panic

and fear flows freely

on the programing air

like a mandatory inoculation

to keep us suitably concerned about the 1%

no one gave a shit about just a few moments before;

you know, the old, the sick, the fat,

what’s needed now more than ever is

levity not gravity.

“Bring out the Dead!”

we ring as we sing,

to those who died laughing

so they may float away,

free at last,

old, but no longer sick, little blimps

to remind us all

how good it can be

even in the end.

IN DEATH

Death comes close in the night

when shadows grow and sleep envelops,

relaxing guards

who snore slumped in corners

their spears and shields useless on the ground,

their dinner crumbs of cheese and bread

just lying there for the rats to nibble.

Amid the sleepers and nibblers Death glides

like a mist, oppressive and still, and dead

leaving a taste, a scent, an air of such otherness.

The rats scurry off,

and the sleepers shift within their dreams

caught, held and slowly suffocated

till the last breath of Life is gone.

Then what does Death do?

The old shapeshifter wakes,

and puts on the face of day.

BOTTOMING OUT IN THE TIME OF COVID

It should be clear by now

how our dreams become our reality,

or as the case may be this time,

how nightmares become reality,

and how, in turn,

Life is nothing but a dream,

merrily merrily, terribly terribly. . . .

The Time of Covid is thus one of dreaming,

but its intent,

as with all dreams,

is to step out of time.

Knowing all is a dream

mind is finally clear that all perception is its own.

Without legs and feet

we are free to walk the actual path

of now.

Without arms and hands

we can handle the real work

of here.

Without a head or heart, eyes or lungs

there is no place for the soul to reside

so at last we cease doing to get,

and instead

find shelter in the place

of no resistance.

A TIME OF RECKONING

Two suns on the horizon

one real, one perceived.

The clouds pass,

but do they really,

or just drift ever new?

Moon rises in phases

waxing and waning a bit each day,

but we all know it’s always full.

Each of us hides our eyes

magically thinking this makes us invisible,

but never to us,

the only one who ever really cares.

Each of us just like this

the center of our own world

connected to each other’s

by a lattice

that has no creator or destroyer

just infinite permutations expanding infinitely . . .

LISTEN WITHOUT DISTRACTION

(FOR CAROL)

 “Awakened One, listen without distraction, now you are dead . . .”

So I tell my wife to tell me one day,

an instruction from the heart to the heart

regardless of her belief or skill, practice or familiarity,

but one dependent completely on my own.

All she need do is speak directly,

and once she has my attention

anything she says will liberate me in that instant.

“Do not be afraid of it, do not escape, do not fear, recognize it as the play of your own mind, your own projection.”

or,

“I need to go get groceries now, but know I love you always.”

or,

“Where are you? Did you remember to take out the garbage?”

My wife after all is no stranger to me

having merged and known union

in more ways than one

as often as the stars align

as often as the Moon and Sun do shine.

Awakened One

know you are now alive,

embodiment of Life itself

eternal, radiant

that which is always

immutable,

know you are loved

and that you are love,

that you are bathed in light

and are light.

From life to life,

strength to strength,

love to love,

light to light,

Awakened One, listen without distraction . . .

JAMES MOORE has published four collections of poems and original art. He has spent his adult life as a resident of Washington State, most of it living off-grid in the remote hills of its North Central region, during which time he has worked as an alternative builder, organic farmer, and climbing and vocational instructor. Self-employed with Opti-Mystic Arts, a fine art and design business, his spiritual and literary influences range from Lao Tzu, Buddha Shakyamuni, Longchenpa, C. G. Jung, Mises, Rothbard and Sowell, to Gary Snyder, Robert Hunter, Richard Thompson, and apparently Dr. Seuss.