New Poems
No harm
I bless roadkill.
I bow to crosses
marking the departed
along the road.
My steepled fingers
brush my chin
as I bless the hawk
flying in solitude
in the noon sky,
the mud-caked cattle
waiting for slaughter
in their crowded feeding lots,
the dead squirrel
covered in blood
on the highway berm,
the newborn foal
asleep near his mother
in the green pasture.
I bless the moon
in all its phases,
the sun rising in the eastern sky,
the canyon wall
basking in the desert sun,
the snow-capped mountains
cradling the rising moon,
the coyote walking slowly
across the meadow,
the jackrabbit weaving
in my truck's headlights,
every star in constellations
I cannot name,
earth's four directions
marked by countless
ancient shrines.
I bless the homeless man
asking for money
near the freeway entrance,
the sadhu
begging with lowered eyes
at the temple gate,
the black teenager
straining against his handcuffs
in an unmarked police car,
the doctor
praying for a miracle
in a hospital chapel,
the Honduran girl
wiping away tears
at a border clinic.
The Dalai Lama
saves a trapped fly,
releasing it into the garden
with his well wishes,
smiling and unashamed.
I carefully move the snail
to the side of the road
hiding my actions
from imagined neighbors,
bowing quickly and
hurrying away.
I remind myself
I will suffer all lives,
all fates.
I remind myself
all beings are holy,
perfect offerings
of the divine.
Blessed are the tender-hearted.
Blessed are those
who befriend all creation.
Blessed are those
who do no harm.
Copyright © 2020 Anson Wright
Poems from Sandstone Monastery
Learn from the Sadness
Learn from the sadness
of a starless night.
Learn from the tears of a mother
near the grave of her son,
learn from the Lord Almighty
in the thundering sky
above Calvary,
learn from the Pharaoh
asleep near his first born
on a night
shattered by screams.
Learn from the swollen lips
of Africa's dark-eyed children,
learn from the families huddled silent
in Central America's countless graves,
learn from the shadows
on Nagasaki's walls,
learn from the toothless women
walking to Hitler's chambers.
Learn you shall not sacrifice
the weak.
Learn that sacrifice
in the name of freedom
leads not to the Promised Land
but to darkness.
Learn you shall not buy freedom
with another's death.
Moses,
you did not want to serve,
living among gentle shepherds,
beholding a God
without voice,
without demands.
Until the flames
entranced you,
their righteous tongues
talking loudly
of bondage,
shouting
for freedom.
Long red tongues, licking
the barricaded front doors
of Egypt's dying children,
as God shielded his eyes
from the price of liberation.
Moses,
was it you
on the low cross,
wood still smoldering
from that lonely pasture?
Did you hear him cry out for his father
as the world grew still,
cry out for his father
as the world grew dark,
cry out for his father
until the pink ember heart
gave up its glow?
What is it we fear
that death becomes our weapon,
that children must die
to hallow our myths?
Who has taught us
and whom will we teach?
Learn you shall not buy freedom
with another's death.
© 2004 Anson Wright
For The Hopi
I dreamed it was the last day of niman kachina.
I dreamed it was July 16, 1945
and the priests were in their kivas.
The walls of the kivas were shaking,
feathered altars were surrounded by bright lights,
pottery danced in the air.
I saw painted racers cowering at the foot of the mesas,
sacred tablets shattering beneath dried cornstalks,
fetuses twisting in their wombs.
I saw a spruce tree thrown to the ground,
a sandstone figure with a missing right arm,
white men with binoculars.
I heard talk of destruction,
talk of useless desert and Trinity site,
talk of a missing brother,
an Anglo-Saxon mystic,
a first ritual of power.
I heard talk of ceremonies with wine and brandy,
of a small people with dark eyes,
of a sacred land without water.
I awoke on a bed of corn
with rain on my cheeks.
© 2004 Anson Wright
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