Poem From The Toilet Seat

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Concentrate

not the citrusy, frozen kind from the supermarket

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Day 911

5 August 2020

Ganges River, India

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One-pointedness of the mind,
they say.

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

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Concentration.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Each a miracle,
the Zen buddhists
insist.

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Ecstasy,
the whirling mystics
sing.

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

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Access concentration
through concentration.

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