Poetry Poetry of Fa Guang Time to Clean the House
| Time to Clean the House |
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| Written by Fa Guang, OHY |
| Thursday, 12 March 2009 00:06 |
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So little time, so much to do. Sweep unpleasant things Under the rug of Time. Divide seconds into smaller parts. But clocks have no room For smaller "parts." No time, just a continuum. A verse with no rhyme, Coming from nowhere, going nowhere. Yet here is where I am, And there is where I was, Or perhaps where I will be. And yet where I truly am Is not any of the three. I am the hands on the clock, The pen that writes the verse The broom that sweeps my actions Beneath a thread bare rug. All but a few souls Ride above such sweepings, A carpet of fantasy and illusion, Dusty stuff desperately held Each forgotten second, Every forgotten life. Occasionally some, with great effort, Lift the rug in worthy disgust, Clean beneath it, rearrange it And place it so as to be seen Through a window of antiques, Looking functional and collectible, Yet still woven with old karma. All but a few souls ride the remnants Over and over, believing they can fly. If you were to ask me, "Where is the Magic Carpet Store?" I would not be able to tell you. I think it went out of business Or had a fire sale. Maybe this time it's time To put away the broom, Disregard clocks And stop taking the ride. |
