A PLEA FOR PRANA
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