Meditations While Teaching

in Baja California Sur Mexico

I should like to fall

through skylights of prayer

and pierce my heart

with a love free of self.

                                      -- C. S. Cholas, 1982

Meditations in Barahona

The frame may be tarnished;

But the mirror stayed polished.

Sheila stood like a wind-wrung tree.

Life's not easy with age, nor more refined.

She held on to faith and clung to the Vine.

Her voice, like a deceptive breeze,

Calmed souls with fresh, morning air,

Then stirred them up with cloudbursts of prayer.

Her words, like the persistent sea, 

Smoothed jagged hearts with free-flowing ease.

Even Peron's tall boys had no force

To match the twinkle of her eyes.

Sheila once sat in an airport with boxes of Books

Her beloved Guardian had told her to take...

Her orders came from the Commander-in Chief,

So, what could she do but sit and wait?

As hours passed, her whimpering gaze

Melted the steel hearts of the Argentine guards,

Who ordered her through Books and all.

When fate is divine, who can escape?

Sheila found her home on the Española coast,

Island of the "black republics" divinely blessed;

Which the Master's Plan had "especially" stressed.

She built her refuge near the palace gates.

Under siege, her battles waged on canvas--

Splashes of sea and sand; landscapes of struggles

In the faces of the men. She taught UN troops

About the Source of all answers, 

The Maker of all questions.

Sheila was "dry in the sea."

"Don't think that a person becomes wise

With age," she advised. 

"Wisdom comes through prayer."

Rays of sunlight split the clouds

And appeared in her face.

Her eyes reflected peace;

I detected that her pleas

About life's "why's" had all been satisfied,

Except why the heroines had to wither away

Like dried up prunes,

As bed-ridden invalids devoid of speech.

Caswell, Warde and Agnes among them.

She didn't want to go like that.

"One hour's reflection is worth

Seventy years of pious worship..."

A tradition goes.

Then who knows

What seventy years of reflection

And service is worth.?

                                                                        -- C. S. Cholas

                                                            Dedicated to Sheila Rice-Wray,

                                                            Barahona Bahá'í winter school, 1983

                        

           HAIKU - DECEMBER 1991 - BELIZE     

                    On the burnt cane fields

                    that roll out like a black sea

                    We search for new grass.

                    Pine trees tower high.

                    They tangle with a breeze that

                    roars like the ocean.

                    In the black night home

                    bus windows let in a wind

                    that makes us shiver.

                    Through night's dark stretches

                    our headlamps show the dull road.

                    We race with the moon.

                    The dogs sniff the dawn.

                    Whiffs of bread in the oven

                    sift through the screen door.

Remembering Vieques  (33 years before Maria)

The seaside cemetery looks

Like a harbor packed with white boats

Topped by empty masts.

Flamboyant trees, flaming in their red headdresses,

Blaze out along the lazy street.

We come from morning prayers on the beach

Down below the driveway lined by conch shells.

Muchachos pass by riding pasofinos,

The small, island horses whose

Hooves clop on the asphalt road.

Tart salsa tunes blare from a radio

In the colmado, packed with canned food,

On the corner where the road meets the sea,

Neighbor women take their morning stroll

For gossip and goods;

We greet the owner, "¿Como está?"

"Regular," is the pat refrain

Offered with a nod of his balding head.

The Caribbean is a mirror;

Thunderclouds hunch above the southern sky.

                                      -- C.S. Cholas

                                                1984, Vieques, Puerto Rico

TROPICAL DOLDRUMS

                                                (A plea to a passing tourist)

            The plans to line the bay with fans

            To start a breeze began with simplicity,

            But in the heat that made us mad,

            We forgot about the lack of electricity.

            Nothing moves this air around.

            Prayer has not budged the stillness.

            Yet we pound the ground in earnest fret

            That we may get a fresh day soon.

            After all, it's the end of June

            When rains should fall

            And bring wonder to us all.

            I wonder if you might not help out,

            As you appear to be on your return trip

            To the States.  Could you ask around for a tip?

            And cheaper rates for winds and relief?

            It's my belief that anything can happen there.

            Could you ship down cool air?

           

            In exchange I'll ask God if He can pay you back.

            My letters may reach Him yet.

            Answers are things that we seldom get.

            I don't know who takes up most of His time--

            The Catholics, Moslems or Protestants.

            Maybe the Hindus or the Jews--they have nothing to lose

            In asking.  Besides, everyone has yens; Buddhists, too.

           

            I often doubt if Bahá'ís can get through;

            Their numbers are so few, and they always ask for

            Abstract whims, such as more than an end to war.

           

            We just want some wind and breeze before this heat

            Can squeeze more drops of sweat from us, and, well,

            If you North Americans can help out,

            We’d be happy to end this drought.

            God gives you everything you want-- money, cars and shoes,

            While we sit with sticks looking for dogs to abuse.

           

            Postscript: 

            Just as our withered bodies shriveled up in pain,

            A storm struck up and blew in a hurricane.

            Now I'm sure that God does not give us what we pray for;

            Out of His endless bounty He gives us ten times more.

           

                        -- C.S. Cholas,   June, 1988, Corozal Town, Belize

TRAVEL REPORT

This will make you laugh:

I am homeless and have no shoes.

The paths I used never ended,

Nor reached any place.  The vines

Left burn marks on my chest.

I had no machete.

My clothes have not been pressed

Since my chin was shaved;

You see for yourself it's been some time.

If I had shoes, I would remove them

Before setting foot upon your rug.

I can stand by the door.

The stories (and rumours of more)

Kept me on my way, but most were lies,

Or altered fabrications.  Only

The ugly ones were true.

A glass of water is all that I choose.

Tell my friends that

I am alive and have no news.

                        -- C.S. Cholas

            Corozal Town, Belize, 21 July 1989

IN THE MILPA

                                                                       

"For the forming of the earth

they said 'Earth'.  It arose suddenly,

just like a cloud, like a mist, now forming, unfolding..."  Popol Vuh

From the air this country looks

like a green, floating garden in a white frame.

The sky's special shade of blue makes one feel

that paradise is near; giant puffs of white proclaim

joy across the open air.

Yesterday's rain charged the earth,

crashing hard upon banana leaves,

as if a war had begun: the roar muffled our voices.

Afterwards, toads rejoiced in bellowed coos

that kept us awake until daybreak.

Along the lane lined by cane, rain water

has brought heaven to dragonflies.

Puddles spot the white, clay road like a map of lakes.

That Mayan couple turns into children when they wade

among their corn and squash.  Growth is a glow

for them, a love affair that keeps them young.

In dark overalls with a rifle slung upon his back,

this farmer is more boy than grandfather.

His eyes flash:  "this is a way of life."

Mapaches—raccoon-- compete for corn.

They call them kuluk in Maya.

The lady says there is a calabasa in the sunlight

on the vine, right there, alone,

like a diamond begging freedom from the earth.

When the sky humbly bows to dusk, I lean on my car

and tell them, "I can take you home now,"

to their village nearby, but the man points to the sun

barely above the western horizon,

"We have another hour of light; we'll stay here until night

and walk back after work is done."

I leave them to their love affair with the land.

I wave before I drive away, but they have already

vanished behind the corn below the pink sky

and the myriad dragonflies.

         

-- C.S. Cholas 

Corozal, Belize (October 1989)