TWO POEMS BY PETER SIERRA

Under the Bo Tree

He sat under the tree, his legs crossed in the traditional
posture— his back erect, hands folded on his lap, eyes staring at the darkness, not a muscle moving. He had been there for hours.
During the day, he had seen the patterns of light and shadows change and move over the thick carpet of grass, and the forest creatures come and go.
With unwavering attention, the sage heard the sounds flow like
an unseen river, sometimes cheerful, sometimes menacing. He
saw the rim of the sun touch the distant trees, he saw the air
grow misty, and then, without a warning ,like a tiger pouncing
on it’s prey, the night swallowed the forest.
There has been awareness of these things, but it did not belong
to him. He was not the one being aware. Awareness simply was, and in awareness, all things appeared and vanished, unimpeded, blissfully. The burning pain in his legs, the weight of tired muscles pulling at his back, the thirst, the hunger were there, happening in the distance like the croaking of frogs which didn’t disturb the silence. The night, the pain, the buzzing of insects happened in a clear bubble of alertness that objected to nothing.
Then, over the eastern horizon, above the blackness of the
distant trees, the darkness trembled with a touch of blue and
the morning star rose. Today, it was like no other star could ever be. It’s light was love, its sweet fury, irresistible. His mind
opened under this light like a flower. And, then, the flower grew,
expanding so rapidly that it left him breathless. His mind
swallowed the night, as the night had swallowed the forest.
When the sun finally rose, it rose within. There was nothing but
himself and he was nothing. The Void breathed peacefully,
letting all things be in perfect emptiness. There was no sorrow,
no suffering, only the bliss of non-being in which everything was.


MARINATING REALITY IN HOLY SAUCE

Reality is dry, it lacks spice,
it doesn't stimulate mind's taste buds
as fantasy does, but fantasy is too
superficial and fragile to deeply satisfy.
So People marinate reality in ritual and
myth.

Ritual is a slow dance that hypnotizes
with symbolic repetition . Myths are
stories about primordial needs. Add a
little wisdom, a few prohibitions, a few
promises of better things to come, and
you have a religion to sweeten reality's
harsh taste.

Few people want to do a rigorous dissection
of reality, when the seduction of ritual
and myth can so easily put fears to sleep,
and season reality to taste.

.
Pete Sierra