David Chorlton

Tranquility’s Way

It goes like this: wake up,
take a chance on morning news, welcome
back the mind from its long walk
through a wasteland and
turn to the daily reading from the Buddhist book.
So much is there
addressing clarity of thought and good
intentions, the like
of which the sky had yesterday but
it was too tired to rain. Heat can do that, burn
away the energy it takes
to produce a good, hard shower. So begins
another day, balancing compassion
with impatience. Last night the wind hissed
and ran from daylight
to the moon. It’s been trying
for months to overturn the last
election. It promises change but only
blows stray thoughts back
up the desert mountain where saguaros
are close to giving up their souls.
If only the wind could be reborn
as rain. If only the cats
spoke a language that says
exactly what they want. The forecast is
for more forecasts. The news
says there were shootings overnight
but the book insists that Guilt
is not a word the Buddhists use. What
to think and who to blame
when the sirens late at night scream with
terrifying reassurance the police
are on their way? A mile
or half the world away
the problem’s out of reach. Clouds are passing
low this morning, suggesting
that fallen trees will stand back up and
false prophets return the money
they have taken. Rivers are waking up
and indictments flow like mercy
in a troubled land. Buckle down and get the chores
accomplished, think of them
as spiritual practice
and keep watching the sky. Surely
it will rain today. Surely
after dark starlight will fall
as loose change on the poor.

Touring the Southwest

What you see passing through
are the rose and rust
on canyon walls where you stop
long enough to study
the oddly shaped rocks
unlike anywhere you come from.
So you leave

remembering the spires
and the spectacle
of ravines, thinking
that is home to us
who live here. There were vanished

people before you,
the ones who left us nothing
but their fingerprints
in the topsoil of the fields
they farmed until
drought wrung them out
of their clay lined walls

and they went away
dragging their shadows behind them.
For you the journey
is faster: the click
of a camera’s eye, your tongue
on a stamp, and you

are travelling the long roads
to be somewhere by dusk,
hardly noticing
the eroded miles of landscape
we will cross, and cross again,
going about our business,
thirsty all the time.

Prompt

It’s just a suggestion to start with When I opened the door 
but there’s no stopping what happens next.
There are steps
leading down to the cellar, down
through the dust and memories best left
to themselves. Here’s a ticket
for the journey never taken, good intentions bottled
and stored, regrets and old shoes, an appointment
book with autumn leaves for pages. Turn left
to walk through all the echoes
coming through a speaker system announcing
The slow train to the past departs
from platform one, right to claim the keys
to a house now occupied by someone from a foreign
land, or go straight ahead
to passport control.  It’s best to stop here, start
over, make inventory of
what is close at hand and now, make use
of the sundial that works in the dark.

 

David Chorlton has lived in Phoenix long enough to remain calm through the hot season, even if 2023 tested everyone in the city. He is generally distracted by the animals and birds inside the house and keeps close watch on those who visit his yard. They help activate his writing self.