Every breath you take

tells the story of your life,

how many orange moons will glow

between your first and final gasp.


When natives greeted missionaries,

sallow faced and prissy with mirthless

bulging eyeballs, wearing pointy shoes

and starched white collars,

they wondered how preachers could

walk and talk and thump their bibles,

these "people without breath".

The tintinnabulation of their

Sunday morning church bells

was more vibrant and alive

than their soporific sermons.


Breathe as deeply as you can

from the bottom of your belly,

a blessed-out baby Buddha

like a filled up Forbes' balloon

drifting in a seamless sky

ready for a trip around the world.


When the nightingales stop singing

get as quiet as Thoreau's Walden

so you cannot hear the clatter

of breakfast in the morning

or the embranglement at work

or the chirp and squeal of cell phones

or the chatter in your head.


The only sound worth hearing

is a didgeridoo ensemble,

a shadowy reminder of being

embosomed in mother earth

entwined with every living thing

igniting the Promethean spark

illuminating pulsating stars

that whisper to you of Prana,

a universal cosmic breath.


Milton P. Ehrlich