We Are Gold: A Poem


our gilded days
and we are –
an imperfect yet holy
caught in our desires
that come down to this:
to be whole
to be loved,
and the mistakes we make
in the way we cannot
that we are not what is
left over, incomplete,
no, we are a reflection,
illumined and pure,
of the vastest space
we can imagine,
and I envision this,
as I my eye catches the spark
of the sun glinting off
gold leaf
on sacred temple grounds:
I don’t have to transport myself
for my transmutation.
I am here
with everything that is,
and I will stay here,
until I understand that
love seeps through me
the way the moon
bleeds her light into the sky,
unhindered, abundant,
limitless, moving mountains and seas
with nothing but
inner light.
– TS

The Kettle

Tammy T. Stone

Tammy T. Stone


The Kettle

Suddenly there was only the kettle
Sitting against a backdrop of red,
a bright orange-red of the temple,
glinting in the sun, by the door.
I sit on the floor
so I can see from its perspective.

Feet passing by.

Incense wafting up in smoke from the pyre.
When was the last time someone picked it up?
Who was the last person to polish it,
or make tea?

Who drank the tea?

The kettle looks like a warrior,
a thick never-left ghost, and it bellows
a history of use. Which was the kettle
that came before it and how many
centuries back in time,
and who are the novice monks
that use it to be of service?

(I have never seen novice monks here).

And if this kettle
then what else?