Hidden in the rain forest of the Oregon Cascade Mountains

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Nitya?

 

Human to human, spirit to spirit, poet to poet, stardust to stardust. The essence of our connection was and is divine play, Leela, joke. - Poet Peggy to Poet Nitya. 1978.

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These two poems sum up the pure magic of connection:

 

The Dusty Back Side

 

While waiting at the corner of 12th and B,

a little old man ran up to me.

Without hesitation, nor flutter of lash,

he slipped me a box then was off in a dash.

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I was on my way over to bite on a burger

but with this strange occurrence I could travel no further.

I stood and I stared at the dusty container

then took out my hankie to see a bit plainer

 

the script that was carved on the dented back side.

Beneath all that rubbish some writing did hide!

I wiped and I polished, even spit just a dab,

but the box remained dusty with a dirty back slab.

 

“What nonsense!” I thought, as I scrubbed with obsession.

“Why not bite my burger and tend to digestion?

You foolish old whatsit, who cares of this box?

It’s dusty and dirty and smells of old socks!”

 

Into my pocket I thrust it with glares,

then crossed from the corner with a coat full of squares.

I stormed into “Binkie’s” and demanded my food

with an embarrassing, bulging side pocket—how rude!

 

(Already I resented that weird little man

for slipping this box in my  poor helpless hand.

Afterall, I was only at 12th and B,

harmlessly waiting to feed my tummy.)

 

She first brought my water and then burger bun,

but before she brought burger I was back on the run.

I raced at great speed (though not enough to be caught)

and skid into “Harold’s Hardwares and Whatnots.”

 

I brought forth the box and demanded to know

if he had a remover to make back sides show.

He glanced at me strangely, his lips a bit smirked,

then attempted to touch my container. I jerked

 

it away before he could paw it!

“Just get the remover and forget that you saw it!”

I rushed to my office, as it neared half past one,

I locked all the doors and had barely begun

 

to take out my hankie, remover, and all,

when I heard a slight tapping at the door in the wall.

Who could that be? “Go away, don’t you hear!”

But the tapping continued to grate at my ear.

 

I was sweating and panting, distraught with emotion,

when the little old man peeped in, “What’s the commotion?”

“WHAT’S THE COMMOTION?!” I flailed in dismay.

“Yes, what’s the commotion?” he continued to say.

 

I turned and was seething, perched high to attack,

when I saw the old man calmly cleaning the back

of the dusty container with his dirty orange sleeve,

then set it down softly, in route to take leave.

 

Before I could climb from my perch of aggression

to grab up the box that had been my obsession,

the door to my office clicked closed without sound

and there sat a clean box that was dirty when found.

 

At first, I was quiet, couldn’t draw in a breath,

then slowly I crept toward that container of death.

I flipped to the back side (me all sweaty and soaked),

and in scratchy bronzed writing read: Life is a joke!

 

Can This Be?

 

I would bow my head

at each meeting

of your majestical presence.

I would rest low on my knees

before your elegant form.

I would unceasingly weep

at even the thought

of such a priestly presence.

 

I would attempt to speak,

yet be without words.

I would yearn to touch,

yet be frozen in stanch.

I would appear of usual presence.

I would smile at appropriate times.

I might even fall into your eyes

for less than a second,

or fumble with cooling hands.

 

Yet, nothing

would truly show you

how you are to me.

I am beyond actions,

beyond appearances,

beyond senses,

beyond passions.

My only thought is,

“Can this be?”