Is this all that I have left,
To talk of death and an old man’s complaints?
Shouldn’t I be dreaming of angels with their wings
Ready to bear me up on that long flight home?
Still of what use are these poems?
Will they ease my passing?
Or just crowd more life
Into my tired soul?
Yes my eyes still greet the moon.
With tobacco offerings
Daily rituals to calm these old bones
And warm my slowing heart.
Yet each night when falling asleep
I remember all my dreams of death
These poems you ask for
Are not what I really need.
But I’ll not be here long
So I’ll write them for you.
Scribed in blood to mark the seasons
In sacred circles of bone white chalk.
Now the years spin faster.
Waking me at 2 or 3 A.M.
To vex my nights
And Stir my pulse
With spirit messages for the living
Like the sun setting at dawn
From old to young
Against the flow of time.
I prefer the Bardo’s living fire
Taking me into the light I crave.
Not for me the grave
With its stone walled musings.
Let my bones burn bright
like a cold full moon.
Silvery in clouded breath.
Let my burning flesh melt like snow.
Sending my footsteps back to the stars
and leave no tracks with my dying.