Sitting as Admitting
by Henry Braun
To sit is to admit the emptinesses
of all one’s losses, pointedly not here,
one after the other: maybes, noes, and yeses
bodied with wings (if they ever were.)
As silently as a tree awaits its breeze,
which always comes–there is a world out there
seasoning away, quite open to ease
you in as one more–say, the billioneth–heir
of the long long line of being human.
Just sit. Just sit then, a quivering leaf
of thinking when you need to, learn how unique
Ones, so-called, are family to the common
EveryOnes, sharing Our common fief
of here and now. Lord Emptiness its peak.
That’s a lovely sonnet, an exquisite meditation on the loneliness of oneness and the line of lineage. Keep it up, Henry!
Thank you, Phil. Here’s some verse just for you:
TO A FELLOW SINGER
Tell me, since you know
the difference between worrying
and thinking.
Spell me, since you can.
And what does “memorable” mean,
that adjective of sharing
past Nows?
Whose muse
remembers the glint
of each shred of maya?
Yours! Some tree’s,
from topiary youngster to
grandfather looming over the lawn
on which young singers play?
Until you answer in poems I’ll go
on going like
the jagged tongues of a fire.
I’ve never been so charmed by a challenge.