Guzlowski-Stepek: The Never-ending Poem

The river, it listens to Ikkyu, the way he prays to the wind scrapes the snow, and talks to the birds that sip at the riverbank. The river is the sound of dreams, the taste of memories. It teaches children to follow the Way. The river hears the priest ask What is the way? Please tell me, what is the Way? Ikkyu has sat still for hours. He knows nothing. In that moment Ikkyu is enlightened. The river listens to Ikkyu's quiet heart.

Ikkyu listens to the river The way he listens to the wind And the snow and the birds That fly above the river. It’s the sound of dreams  And memory, the children Who teach us the way. He smiles and wonders  What is the way? He has listened for ages And still he doesn’t know. Perhaps he needs to listen  To his feet more.

The river stopped flowing. Only Ikkyu, sitting on the bank, deep in thought, was flowing. The river, the only thing static in the whole multiverse in that moment, observed Ikkyu and felt sorry for him. He thinks too much, that one the river thought. He needs to chill out. He needs enlightened. So the river, silent as emptiness, reared up a huge wave and dropped it over Ikkyu, awakening him from his musings. Ikkyu smiled, laughed, soaked in reality again. Thank you, dear river for saving me from my stupid mind. The river, job done, resumed its flow while Ikkyu's sat still apart from the water dripping from every inch of his body.

He wondered where the water was going.   Sometimes it seemed in a hurry. Other times it seemed almost asleep.   When it hurried,  Was it hurrying toward something?   Was it thirsty for sand  or fish or a quiet lake  someplace far from here  where children swam with it  and sang the waves awake? Ikkyu shook his head. He and water had been friends for years, And still it was a mystery. 

Ikkyu sits upon a wall watching the river flow by He knows there is no river no wall no Ikkyu only the flow going by still he watches

We breathe in clear and fresh we breathe out gentle and peaceful unless we don't until we don't then the struggle begins the body fights the mind fights we win or we lose if we win we know we'll have to do it all another time not knowing if we'll win fearing that we'll lose

  Is breathing simple?   In the next room  my father in law tries to sleep. He’s 97 years old and every breath  is a lesson in struggle  and longing and need.   His heart beat is down  to 40 beats a minute.   Every couple of minutes  he clears the crap from his throat  and forces another breath down.  Breathing for him  is like walking for an infant.   Impossible almost.   But the infant doesn’t know it.   And he does.