Sunday Poem #13: Buddhist Chronicles 3
This is the third in the suite of narrative poems, the Buddhist Chronicles. Rahula was Siddhartha’s young son, born after his father left the family to seek enlightenment. If you missed the first two poems in this series, you can read them here and here.
…………………………………….
Buddhist Chronicles
3
Rahula’s Demand
Where is my father?
Why do you sit all day by the window
gazing out at the sky, and at this winding path
that leads away from our mountain kingdom?
Mother, come, play with me. I have a new monkey
with soft white fur, black rings around his eyes;
he speaks to me in monkey tongue,
tells me stories of the bazaar.
Why must I stay here in grandfather’s palace?
It is pestilent with women and old men
hiding from the cold.
I want to see my father.
Take me to him.
……………………………
As always, I’d love to hear your insights, thoughts and poems in Comments. Poetry is an act of communion, an exploration of intersecting realities, a song, the rhythm of breath in words. Let’s play poetry together.
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Oh, Rahula. Sweet, dear. And disappointed.
I wish I knew the answer to your question.
And I wish I didn’t know — so very well –
the asking of it.
May I come and sit with you?
Fatherless children often get
distracted mamas, too.
It’s an irony that teaches us
the dark wisdom of Void.
We are a special breed, Rahula.
Raw and unfinished in many ways
as our journey began with extra mystery
and less assurance.
But what if we get to fill in those spaces
with the stuff of our liking?
What if we swap denied paternity
for Endowed Possibility?
We can claim a star system as our heritage!
Or an ocean floor. Maybe we’d prefer
a coconut grove? Or a seraphim’s symphony?
We get to choose. To create. To complete
our unfinished parts.
What if our fathers didn’t leave us
but left immense room for us
to become whole and perfect…
to compost the bastard effect…
to let the saline of tears and sweat
mineralize our soul
and grow our own hardy fruit
able to endure hard frosts.
Flee that palace if you want,
because Paradise is wherever
you set your precious lil’ feet.
Erika Harris´s last post … President Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize Acceptance Speech
Erika, wow! What a perfect response to this unfathered child! Thank you for sharing your poetic voice, extending the conversation, and exploring this terrain of the heart with me.
Hiro Boga´s last post … Sunday Poem #13: Buddhist Chronicles 3
“Poetry is an act of communion, an exploration of intersecting realities, a song, the rhythm of breath in words. Let’s play poetry together.”
That generous invitation of yours, Hiro… it explains so much, and opens portals. I’ve never experienced poetry in this interactive way before. I love it. Line after line, Surprises jump out and playfully yell, “Peekaboo! Betcha didn’t know I was here…”
Erika Harris´s last post … President Obama’s Nobel Peace Prize Acceptance Speech
I love this too! Poetry was always meant to be created and celebrated in community. I’m so happy you’re willing to play with me–thank you! :-)