A meditator’s mantra,
“Om Mani Padme Hum,”
transforms within a dream
to be “Oh Miriam.”
“Mmmm Mm Mmmm,” a hummingbird’s hum,
becomes, “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm Miriam.”
Three syllables add up,
infinity their sum,
a musical summation,
Mi ‒ ri ‒ am.
“Mmmm Mm Mmmm,” a hummingbird’s hum,
becomes, “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm Miriam.”
The dreamer, though, feels glum,
as from delirium,
no chance with Miriam.
“Mmmm Mm Mmmm,” a hummingbird’s hum,
becomes, “Mmm Mmm Mmm Mmm Miriam.”
Mario A. Pita
You’re labeled by your ancestry or hue,
You’re labeled by your wealth or job you do,
Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, or Hindu…
But labels peel off since there’s more to you.
Yes, labels peel off since there’s more to you.
You’re labeled by your sex and preference too,
You’re labeled sharply by your point of view,
You’re branded as if by a skin tattoo…
But labels peel off since there’s more to you.
Yes, labels peel off since there’s more to you.
Divisiveness and hatred which are sick
have come from making people labels stick.
You’re someone yet nobody can say who…
All labels peel off since there’s more to you.
Yes, labels peel off since there’s more to you.
How can I see you?
The truth, not the fables…
How can you see me?
Let’s peel off the labels.
How can you see me
If turning the tables?
How can I see you?
Let’s peel off the labels.
Let’s peel off the labels.
Let’s peel off the labels.
Let’s peel off the labels…
Mario A. Pita
While some may think it’s silly or it’s dumb
to feel that you can travel on a drum,
I took a trip from listening to one
and testify it surely can be done.
When I began to hear the steady beat,
I felt quite skeptical that I would meet
a ‘spirit animal’ yet wished to try,
and when I met one, I began to cry,
because it was a bird that I watched die,
outside a window, when I was a kid,
caught by my cat who in the backyard hid.
I’d tried to save it, but I was too late,
and I’d kept vigil while it met its fate,
in grief of how it looked up to the sky,
as if in pleading or in wondering why…
I held the wounded bird cupped in my hand
and asked it so that I might understand:
“Are you my spirit animal? You’re dying,
apparently, with no more hope of flying.”
The bird did not respond but rather grew,
as if transcending death it had gone through,
now very much alive instead of dead,
in human form, but keeping its bird head.
The cat that killed him in the room appeared,
transformed to tiger, yet he wasn’t feared.
I’ve always loved birds, but I’ve loved cats too,
despite the hunting of the birds they do,
and this conundrum vanished in the drumming,
as I observed the friends they were becoming…
The three of us held hands and danced together,
in revelry of twirling, fur, and feathers.
Repeatedly, they swapped heads with each other,
as if to show that they were kin, like brothers,
though one had been the hunter, one the prey,
displaying those were roles as of a play…
Although the dance had filled me with a feeling
of long-desired harmony and healing,
the vision which I had felt so intense
that I escaped it out of self-defense.
To seek for more serenity my wish,
I darted to the round sky with a fish,
but even that was overwhelming blue,
through which the speedy fish and I swam-flew,
so soon I fled the deepness of the skies
to black of eyelids covering my eyes,
assuming that the vision was complete,
returning to the rhythmic drumming’s beat…
Then Jessica,* the drumming-journey guide,
suggested something I had never tried:
till then the vision flowed forth like a fountain;
I’d ask now to be taken to ‘my mountain.’
Before the chance to think of whom to ask
to help me to fulfill this travel task,
I found myself within a kangaroo,
its pouch unfit for all that I’d been through.
Then I was on a horse I rode as teen,
that I had feared though he was nice, not mean.
I asked if I should fear him. He said, “No!”
though wordlessly, then galloping we’d go
toward the mountain where he swiftly took us
through air when sprouting wings like Pegasus…
Emerging from the journey, still in tears,
I dried my eyes and joined my travel peers,
and we each shared our very different tales
with all their deep, mysterious details.
Returning to the world that’s deemed mundane,
the world that’s full of sorrow and of pain,
though grateful for that vision that was great,
it’s meant, I feel, for me to integrate
to life at odds as though like cats and birds,
in harmony my actions and my words.
May I help bring the healing glimpsed in visions
To Earth and to myself, full of divisions.
* Jessica Fosbrook, Drum Journey Guide
Mario A. Pita
Imagining my fingers sprouting stems,
I saw from them long branches multiply,
so though at first there were just ten of them,
they spread to touch each star within the sky.
Through being deeply rooted, I am free
to reach toward the heavens as a tree.
Imagining my toes were sprouting roots,
I saw them propagating, probing more,
so though they started out as little shoots,
they deepened to surround the planet’s core.
Through being deeply rooted, I am free
to reach toward the heavens as a tree.
My fingers spreading limbs that touch each star,
my toes extending roots around Earth’s core,
the vision seems far-fetched, but though it’s far,
it’s near and dear to me as metaphor:
Through being deeply rooted, I am free
to reach toward the heavens as a tree.
Mario A. Pita
Beneath tall trees, I bask in dappled light
the morning sun relays between the leaves,
the city forest’s loveliness a sight
my consciousness with gratitude receives.
My mind, as if a sponge, has porousness,
so I soak in, absorbing gorgeousness.
Not only through my vision do I soak
in beauty which arrives as well by sound
as leaves above me of a giant oak
converse in winds that gently dance around.
My mind, as if a sponge, has porousness,
so I soak in, absorbing gorgeousness.
Among the trees, an elder with a cane,
as stately as the trees I have been seeing,
reminds me that not only trees contain
the beauty to be found in every being.
My mind, as if a sponge, has porousness,
so I soak in, absorbing gorgeousness.
Mario A. Pita
My thoughts that occupy
the space within my head
are tiny when compared
to your coniferous spread,
Yet on the day I saw
your growth that would amaze,
I’d lost my sense of awe
within a thinking maze.
My monumental paranoia
is dwarfed by you, divine Sequoia.
I’d traveled far to witness,
conquered fear of flight,
your gargantuan magnificence
of growing toward the light.
I’d crossed a continent
to see your mammoth girth.
accruing over centuries
before my year of birth.
My monumental paranoia
is dwarfed by you, divine Sequoia.
Although I won’t attain
your awesome magnitude
and wrestle with my brain
as highly troubled dude;
Although I’ll never reach
your stature and your breadth,
within me there’s a tree
that blooms with every breath.
My monumental paranoia
is dwarfed by you, divine Sequoia.
Mario A. Pita
We’ve held hands through a downpour and a blizzard,
but when I’m out would you care for my lizard?
Our friendship ship is like the ark of Noah,
But would you, my best buddy, watch my Boa?
Others whom I’ve asked have hollered, “Heck, no!”
But would you when I go care for my Gecko?
We’d do together anything we wanna,
But when I’m gone would you feed my iguana?
We’ve talked philosophies, Aristotelean,
But would you house one weekend my chameleon?
Your care is incredibly rare—one in a jillion—
but would you care for pets that are reptilian?
You’ve slogged with baggage that’s been hard to lug,
but when I travel would you watch my slug?
Our friendship ship beats any with its sail,
but if I’m out would you tend to my snail?
We’ve been through times of clarity and fog,
but would you feed mosquitoes to my frog?
I won’t ask you to lift a heavy load,
but would you ever watch over my toad?
You’d do a lot, I know, for friendship’s sake,
but would you babysit my rattlesnake?
Through thick and thin times you have lingered by me,
but would you watch my creatures that are slimy?
You’re kind, but would you kindly keep an eye on,
a pet that’s dear to me, my ten-foot python?
Together we’ve enjoyed some apple cider,
but would you feed some bug juice to my spider?
Outside the loo, you waited as I peed,
but would you put shoes on my centipede?
When backs have ached, we’ve rubbed each other’s spines,
but would you entertain my porcupines?
As though a blossom, love from us has budded,
but would you watch my pets that are cold-blooded?
Would you, my friend, my love, dear one, agree
to care for my immense menagerie?
Mario A. Pita
Your singing is a blessing:
you bless us when you sing.
From your songs, beauty blossoms
like gladness does in spring.
You bless us like a blueness
in which we can take wing.
You bless us like a blanket
that shields us from cold’s sting.
You bless us in a blending
of voice and keys and strings.
You bless us, heart and mind blown,
with breath-borne worlds you bring…
Your singing is a blessing:
Please bless, sing, bless, sing…
Mario A. Pita
(Backing vocals by Maddie Lam )
I’ve loved the rootedness
of fingers intertwined,
romantic loveliness
of lives that grow combined,
and wondered how I could
survive stripped of such roots,
and haven’t understood
a tree without pursuits:
The tree within my chest,
that blossoms with each breath,
the tree with which I’m blessed
roots me within life’s depth.
I’ve loved the trees outside
and also now my own,
the tree that blooms inside,
that since my birth has grown:
The tree within my chest,
that blossoms with each breath,
the tree with which I’m blessed
roots me within life’s depth.
While intertwining may
or may not be my lot,
I’m rooted either way,
blessed with the tree I’ve got:
The tree within my chest,
that blossoms with each breath,
the tree with which I’m blessed
roots me within life’s depth.
Mario A. Pita
The fallen leaves were running down the street
as if they had somewhere they wished to go.
They seemed to sprint although they had no feet,
away from branches where they used to grow.
Though we may have free-will, at times it seems
we’re moved like leaves obeying wind regimes.
The leaves ran by as if by some command
they had no other choice but to obey,
an order that they couldn’t understand
about how fast to gallop and which way.
Though we may have free-will, at times it seems
we’re moved like leaves obeying wind regimes.
The leaves which on the street appeared to run
seemed headed for festivities and fun,
but I wished to be like a different one:
the kind that on a tree collects the sun…
We’re moved like leaves obeying wind regimes
but can be free — like leaves collecting beams.
Mario A. Pita
Snapshot Couplets 