i sat there on top of the mountain
unmoving like a rock
waiting as long as thirty five years
for an illuminating mountaintop experience
a transfiguration to happen, i hoped
one such as peter, james and john witnessedwith that man who walked to his gallows
courageously but only with his loin cloth
and suddenly there was smoking
spitting of also a little lavabut only for four days
before that volcano erupted with fire
brimstone, even saint patrick that day
could not protect me from her hot ashemptying wallet and honoured existence
transforming me to a destitute
and in that new status
i deciphered my summit, my buddhahoodas i discerned the futility of that bottomless pit
i tried hard to build for my comfort
1 comment:
I like so much this poem, Henry. A moment of intense truth.
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