We Bowed Before Him


The ten monks chanted. They chanted a well worn script of prayer. Together, but not quite in unison. Resonating with the constant beat of the wooden percussion. Turning the page on life.

We bowed before Him. Palms up.

Baba looked over his alter with a smile rarely captured by the camera. Handsome and proud. His alter laden with fruits and favorite snacks, flowers, and huge red envelops stuffed with origami silver and gold ingots piled high.

We bowed before him. Palms down.

The ten monks chanted. Pausing for sips of tea. Their voices rising and falling. Sometimes no more then a rumbling murmur. And other times rising in a crescendo. Passing pages marked by the ringing of a bell.

We bowed before Him. Palms up.

Baba looked at his loved ones gathered before him. To celebrate his life. To honor his death. His children and their children. His legacy of blood. And those of us that were blessed to be welcomed into his family. His legacy of love.

We bowed before him. Palms down.

After each chant. When we had all bowed both palms up and palms down. There was a break. Time for the monks to get their tea refreshed and check their phones. Time for us to walk around the temple. Families in mourning mingling with sightseers. Some lighting incense and bowing in prayers. Others curiously peeking into the alter rooms.

There were five rounds of prayer. Five rounds of bowing palms up. Five rounds of bowing palms down.

In the fifth round the monks led us in a procession to the temple’s central grounds where we were joined by other families making the same procession. In a giant urn, we placed the red envelopes filled with origami gold and silver to burn. As the envelopes were taken by flame some of the money spilled out in abundance. A good sign.

Back in the alter room, one of the monks sang about Baba, the family he came from and the family he raised. They blessed us with their prayers. We bowed before Him. Palms up.

Baba still looking upon us from his place at the alter, smiled. He blessed us with his life. We bowed before him. Palms down.


Be well,

Monty


I Went Out to Hear Silence


“I Went Out to Hear”

– writing prompt from James Crews’ “Weekly Pause”

I went out to hear Silence
But her voice shattered
Slicing through my tendons
Digging into my fatty tissue
Cracking open my rack of ribs
Piercing my numb heart
And spilling cold blood blue.

I went out to hear Silence
But she was broken by my cries
By my anguish and anger
My questions of why
My feelings unwanted
My scorched screams
Of hellish blood boiling red.

I went out the hear Silence
But she told me its not her time
She told me to cry out
To scream and curse and question God
To bleed
Until I’m empty and parched,
And she promised to be there later to replenish me.

I went out to hear Silence,
And she helped me see.

I went out to hear Silence,
And found me.


Be well,

Monty


Six Folds


Six Folds

I fold ingots out of silver coated paper;
A delicate duty for my clumsy fingers;
The thin papers too easy to tear;
The silver coating too willing to shed it’s mooring;
Not unlike his soul. Too willing to go. Too willing.

It takes six folds to form each ingot;
Six gentle creases to craft silver from paper;
Six folds to remember;
Six folds to never forget.

We’ll burn the ingots;
Sending their spirits skyward;
To him, I’m told. To buy food and comfort on his journey;
I had not realized that this is such a commercial enterprise,
That the road to heaven is lined by shop owners barking their wares;
But knowing him, he’ll negotiate a good price;
For nothing ever tasted better to him than a great deal –
A price worth bragging about over dinner
As he urged us to dig in with a big smile and gruff, generous laugh;
A gruff, generous laugh that now only echoes in our memories.

Into each fold I tuck a shared moment;
Gently sealing it in with each crease;
Six folds to remember;
Six folds to never forget.


For Baba. May your journey be blessed.


Be well,

Monty


Salting the Earth


Salting the Earth

Torrents of tears flow down streaky cheeked hills
Puddling into overflowing pools under foot
Salting the earth barren
Stripping soil of it’s soul
His body now cold.


Be well,

Monty


Under the Earth’s Shadow

I lay awake under the earth’s shadow
Gentle breathing curled at my feet
A companion in this darkness
Holding guard against
The cold reality and coming light
For I’m not ready to end this night
I’m not ready for the light.


Be well,

Monty


Endure Me


Endure me
Endure my cold feet under the sheets
Endure my rough breaths sawing through the night’s air
My tossing and turning
My hogging all the blankets
My nightmare kicks
My morning breath-tinged kisses
My raspy “good morning”
My too-tight embrace
My love
Yes, my love
And I’ll endure your’s too.


Be well,

Monty


Shine On


Shine on, shine on, shine on me
Shine your light on me
Light me up, cast away my doubts
Lift me out of these shadows
I’m ready, I’m ready, please shine your light on me.


Be well,

Monty


An Observation and a Query


A fly walks by.
S t r e t c h i n g
Its legs, I guess?


Be well,

Monty


A Gentle Drizzle Sets the Scene


A gentle drizzle sets the scene;
The last of the season’s persimmons hang-on,
Half-concealed behind leaves shimmering under
A quiet concert of pitter-patter percussion.

In quick succession a jack-hammer jacks,
A jet’s engine whines,
And wheels whirl along the moist road beyond the wall
Adding their own interpretation to the unwritten music.

This must be the chorus as there they go again
The jack, the whine, and the whirl
Until a tightly cadenced thwack-thwack-thwack
Interrupts as a train speeds by.

A tiny red spider crawls across my keyboard.
My fingers dance around it as I tap-tap-tap
My own contribution to the score,
Until again the jack, whine, and whirl take over.

Pitter-patter jack whine and whirl, tap-tap-tap.
Pitter-patter jack whine and whirl, tappity-tap-tap.
An unexpectedly perfect lullaby as I settle down to nap.


Be well,

Monty


The Birds


The birds are watching me from the wire above.
What are they thinking? Do they see my sadness?
Or are they too busy balancing in the breeze?

The birds have moved on. Perhaps to a more sturdy perch.
Or maybe just down the wire for a better outlook —
Bored by my melancholy.

Do the birds even care what we do down here? Are they aware of our envy? To fly far away at a whim? To leave the ground behind and discover what’s beyond the horizon?

I’m precariously balancing upon a wire. Electricity coursing through. The ground is calling for me to complete the circuit. The sky is calling for me to fly.

Tell me birds…shall I try?


Be well,

Monty