Conference Room

We’re heavy hitters:

Buddhists, Yogis, Hindus, Sufis, a Nun and Spiritualists.

I’m thinking Christian, maybe Catholic,

but war is live, a web of chaos and elevated consciousness.

I smiled and tripped over a Center Piece.

Energy was seeping

deep

a soul.

I asked a Yogi: Who’s your Goddess? She blushed and

switched dispositions.

We made our way to a settee:

sat in silence, and

interrupted a universe.

Our Nun questioned me:

“What is your Persian Rose?”

I responded: Yahweh.

“Well behave,” she cried.

How have I wandered, I said: “You’ve lied to yourself,” she

uttered.

A Buddhist intervened; but I was at a distance from a table:

She uttered: “Where is maya?”

How should I respond, I said.

She walked away.

Krishna made an appearance: “Is that your wrist," he asked?

Yes, I said.

“Why my name," he asked?

Because, I’m Arjuna, I said.

“Well answer your duty,” he cried.

Lights flickered.

A Spiritualist gripped a fly and opened his hand. I studied to

no avail.

“The night is free,” he glanced.

Hearts were warm.

“We die so often,” he said; “and when shall we fly again?”

Before morning, I cried.

He smiled, and waved a cross.

I walked through, and wrote a Sufi.