Dharma Life

byAngeline©

Bob Dylan and Middle English
reign on this love supreme.
Poetry slides down walls,
rolls in cookpots.
Words simmer, bubble
strophes, stanzas.
We harmonize in cantos.

I look at my knee,
pick up a scabbed rhyme
dropped from my stony past,
and press on another phrase.

He brings me music.
He brings me books.
Kerouac speaks in his voice,
and Dharma is lionized
twixt silly smiles,
mouthing metaphors,
understanding.

We're two wacked out intellectuals,
he laughs, then reads
from some medieval text.

I feel lazy like a sunflower,
swayed and dark eyed,
lifted out of the storm,
brightened in poetry grown live
with arms, legs, shaped
in fingers holding my hands
to the bristly texture
of his sweet face.

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byAngeline© 5 comments/ 3294 views/ 1 favorites

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