The New Otani

Understanding impermanence
Is the true path to
Inner peace and freedom.

The Dharmapada (Sanskrit)
The Concise Words of Buddha


Upon entering, you notice
rice paper windows
sliding open to
the view east
from downtown L.A.,
as I breathe in peace,
thoughts removed from
the sunlight-washed city of
jobs, kids, sports cars and
enduring commitment.

Words over eggs rolls and tea,
unnecessary to explain
the weight of rocks in the garden,
boulders roll slowly leaving
a trail of pebbles to rake,
the body busy working
while the mind shifts
with sands to escape.

Energy exerted
outside of ourselves,
through our ways, becomes
the sweat that binds us,
the fluidity of motion in space,
our eyes close to
the soft peach hues
of the room, we embrace
that which, though
shared silence,
we contemplate.

On the wall, a print capturing
peach blossoms in spring,
to remind us
of the renewal of life
that affirms, serves and heeds,
beyond rice paper windows,
the freedom of dreams.
---------
On the Highway Heading West
(for Minister Patricia Morgan)


We chase bleeding sunsets
'til the highway ends,
catching final reflections cast
on a fading horizon,
Florence Nightingales
with broken-wing syndromes,
We do the work of God.

Last week, I rescued a pigeon,
this week, you tried to save a soul,
frightened, wounded creatures
trembling in the cold.

Mind stalked by yesterday's madness
nights haunted by visions of blindness,
voices of demons shadow her world,
you show her where to take hold.

The pigeon ascended at sunrise
assuming its place with the rest,
but she, cursed by freedom and madness,
was last seen wandering towards the west.
----------------
Near Hidden Sachet


Sleeping naked in sheets stained by
the blood of my mother,
breasts ache,
prayers and tears unchanged,
I weep for
the want of another.

Keane's wide-eyed girl stares at me,
Vincent's nude looks away,
her fine Italian features
lovingly portrayed, life-sized beauty
captured in canvas,
on the wall of my room,
near hidden sachet.

I placed a single silk rose
in her casket, the corsage worn
on that fateful day,
she was so proud,
mother-of-the-bride,
the twentieth of May.

Her daughter married
an unbeliever, agnostic
pig-headed fool,
walked down the isle alone,
Keane's scared little girl,
grown up,
approaching her doom.

Charcoal on paper, oil on canvas,
innocence long dead
but with me today,
flesh warmed by
pink sheets and a comforter,
sad eyes, rounded breasts,
sweetly scented but
wasting away.

.

Bridget Rose Duquette

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