Sitting in my scivvies, cross legged, on floor—
Actually I now have to do so in bed
Hips, limbs, bones couldn’t take it anymore—
I strive to love all the world, dedicated
self to become SELF, in spirit be POOR,
To WANTS of the material world dead.
Yet the gnaw that I am missing the point
Gets my nose (as well as hips), out of joint.
The difficulty itself is with life.
You can’t think it to be a certain way.
It dishes up joys, struggles, love, strife
In unequal portions that there’s some days
You feel like a one bullet Barney Fife
Ill equipped to set your weapon ablaze.
But by sitting still and meditating
At least you can stop self-medicating.
The other point well worth realizing
Is that meditation is just a part
Of past guide’s’ efforts idealizing
Selflessness, Nirvana, this world depart.
To me, that’s just too much theorizing.
Spirit gives the material its heart.
Our job is to love the world, in it strive
For perfect union with all that’s alive.