TEMPLE POEMS I. Prayer, an odd product of our evolution. One of the few things humans do that seems to have no logical end, no pragmatic course. Yet, despite this, the world over, silent whispers seek answers— our syllables searching the cosmos for signs of life. II. Running out of pages to write the desperate monk inks his skin. Upon returning to the temple the abbot asks for the sutra and with nothing to show, the monk disrobes, saying, our truth is best read in bloody bodies and broken heads. III. Candle wick, drifting flame. Seasons passing by in moments. Incense rising, curling, drifting, waiting. Sparrows sing to welcome Spring. The ikons stare back asking, why? The student with no answer to give, shrugs his shoulders and sighs.
PS
I will be reading poetry at the Release Cafe this Sunday at 5 PM in Williamsburg. If you’d like to come and support us, please feel free to purchase tickets here. You can use my first name, “Ryan,” to get a discount on your tickets.