Deep in Portola Valley Forest
Though I do live in one,
it’s also anything but hot.
Weather cooling down as now
approach month of November’s
last Thursday – which through
‘19 used to be called Thanksgiving
I’m still unsure whether this 2020
will be among self’s strangest years
yet as family collectively tries to decide
Should we all get together….or sequester?
Thus, then just in case decision is to celebrate
Turkey Day, Pops got out his trusty ol’ popgun
plus went into musty woods searching for signs
feralest gobblers, autumns often frequent our local
wild oak groves: hound dogs unable to follow some
their tracks; for pretty penny, my wifey hedges her bets
to accommodate a dearest Israeli son-in-law who doesn’t
know from nada about that most un-American of holidays
bought only kosher bird left on Mollie Stone’s Grocery shelf.
Long ago told by his father,
Seek the golden key that will unlock
the door to your soul,
the divine ruler kept predatory eyeteeth
in a rock jar in a monument
soon to be toppled by earthlings
who’ll settle up before dirt settles down
on the tottering despot.
ii. Smell the here and odd now of God.
Binge-ing on honeydew before bed…
sweet amber liquid is no mirage
when I am stepping into wet slippers
as you Rumi-nate joy post arrival.
iii. Reflections kouta
— thanks to Tim Olmsted and David Cohn
tell us we mirror
what aspire to, right here
this very moment.
If Ger sought rank in human
value systems (rich,
funny, accomplished, handsome
smart), he could be dissed
as pretty seedy, riddled
with hope well as fear,
disregard Sis, compete with
my other brothers
which brings suffering plus low
self-esteem, doubt, shame,
pride and jealousy — no less
Rumi urged: pass before you
pass, die to worldly
grasping, rebirth toward feeling
your peaceful divine.