Kabir said, “Friend, please tell me what I can do about this world
I hold to, and keep spinning out!”
The mystic poet curls inside the cup of lotus blossom tea.
The steam, his breath, clouds my breath.
(Persia kisses my mouth)
His bones, a mist that fogs my spectacles
In a dervish of desert mind.
(Was that me holding tight, spinning out?)
His voice, a storm of rabab strings made of sheep gut
Plucking away with eternal questions that sound like prophesy.
(Was that a riddle? Birth, old age, sickness, death?)
What can I do about this world tangled in my hair,
And its DNA woven in my heart?
(Impermanence and the endless highway, a cosmic joke)
Even Kabir spins out like a teenage boy in a hotrod
Bound by curiosity and the lute strings of love.
(Be here now, says Ram Dass)
But, what does one do with vision and desire beaded with hope
Now birthing in my teacup?
Abandon all hope! Don’t be fooled, my friend!
Kiss the eyelids of hope and watch it sink to the bottom of the cup.
(Toss out the tea leaves)
Kabir and I will ride the wind over the lands.
We will watch one another’s back and tap the shoulder of samsara.
(What can I do about this world I hold onto and keep spinning out?)
Patsy Kate Booth is a lifelong adventurer, poet and writer. Her work has been published in several anthologies, including Lummox Press, The Sandhill Review, Willow Creek Journal, A Walk Along the River, and recently prose in Why We Boat, a compilation of river stories. She is currently working on poetry and stories of her life in the upper Rio Grande of Colorado. You can visit her new blog at patsykate.wordpress.com.