Poems given to me while spillin' tea on my keyboard, often get dropped here for the benefit of humanity and my own hubris.
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Pondering and sipping tea
Before the day’s shadows
Aroma of dawn, an incense and tea.
A Bach fugue spinning thoughts
Into the heavy atmosphere,
Full of fecundity, potential
For luminous being.
After the day’s shadows
Dance across the ceiling,
Lying on the couch
Sleeping infant on my chest,
Smelling each deep breath
And the gurgling summer rain,
Cushions under head compresses thoughts
Listening to tiger tracks in the moss.
What is the point of pondering?
What is the point of being if not to be?
© 2001-2005, Howard Abrams • Except where otherwise noted, all original content is licensed under a Creative Commons License (see details).
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