Before Shambhala’s gate

What in the world am I missing?
I’m a word waiting to fill silence,
I am lips that aren’t yet kissing:
an unattained magnificence.

It’s not for lack of benevolence
(I’ve done my share of well-wishing
and my weekly Sabbath penance).

I guess I’ll have to keep fishing
for the key to my transcendence
while others keep dismissing
an unattained magnificence.


I once remarked down by the sea,
peppered white with frothy foam,
“My dear friend, can’t you see
that life is like a poem?

There’s the rich and fragrant loam,
each church-goer on bended knee,
and the cluttered cabinets in your home…

Each child giggling in infancy
and every moldy, musty tome
proves yet again, my dear, to me
that life is like a poem.”