Poem From The Toilet Seat

Uttarakhand, India.

Concentrate

One-pointedness of the mind,
they say.

The rishis, sages,
books by those
who are more than less enlightened.

Concentration.

Meditation
is concentration.
Fixation on an object
to free oneself of thoughts.

Use the breath,
a beloved mantra, mala,
to access God that dwells in all
and everything.

A quiet mind will
notice so much magic
concentrated
in a single spot.

An infinite amount of magic.
The whole universe
concentrated
there.

A lone vine dangles.
Leaves breathe in pairs along its length
separated into increments
perfectly spaced
and a little less between each rung.

A solitary bulbul calls for his mate.
Two white cheeks and a yellow highlight
at the butt
painted so
perfectly perfectly.

One whirlpool,
one panicking earthworm,
the flies on the cow’s face,
the water snake diving back into the opaque.

Each a miracle,
the Zen buddhists
insist.

Ecstasy,
the whirling mystics
sing.

A concentrated mind
will notice
the divine that is
concentrated before them.

Access concentration
through concentration.