The Golden Buddha

A small plaster Buddha sits on the shelf 

On the bookcase in the closet

It being very nondescript, I glance at it

Plaster covered in golden paint

 

Seems asleep, but in meditation

I, feeling tired

Roll back on my back

Softly I hear “Douglas”

 

I glance, it’s not moved

I move again on my back

The statue says

 “I am the Buddha.”

 

I reply;

“You are a small golden statue.”

Now I know I must be sleeping

The golden buddha is not alive 

It can’t be the buddha

 

While this statue is not alive

Seemingly it spoke

But also a statue has no soul

Just a plaster cast

 

Is the plaster buddha a Buddha?

It has no soul!

Another thing that has no soul is the living Buddha

I roll over and go back to sleep

 

Or was I always asleep?

Lightning Dance

A mountain plateau, isolate

Stretched for miles,

Through Wyoming

The driver turned away

 

Left alone waiting

For another ride

No one came

 

In the distance

Rainclouds roiled

Moving east

Bearing with abandon

 

Lightning stabbed the plateau

Licking the flat ground

Flashing and roaring

Dancing wildly

 

A deluge covered me.

Being the tallest thing

“Oh lightning” I muttered

“You might find me!”

 

A small ditch availed me.

I threw my face down

I Remembered that

Lightning searches shallows

 

Pleading for grace

The storm screamed

Shaking my body

Then passed me by

 

I rose unscathed

Shook the rain off me

Turned to the west

Waited for a ride