A Present Past
Sitting in meditation, I fell into a memory
A Dickensian moment that felt so real
It is an English eighteenth century setting
A dark, dirty coloring on everything
I’m a scrawny, small child, maybe about eight
Standing in a line with many other boys
My stomach is so empty, a bowl in my hand
Watching the porridge being served ahead of me
Feeling hungry, alone, knowing my orphaned status
The man serving is filthy, toothless, and vile
Cursing each of us as he ladles out our ration
Just before I am served, he spits into the pot
I don’t care, I’m hungry
I need my portion of this tasteless paste
Another dirty handed man tears off a small piece of bread
The oily smudge marks do not matter to me
I feel the heaviness of being so alone
In a cruel world, in a hopeless time
Knowing the destitution of a crushed spirit
That lingering death while my heart still beats
The sadness lingers as I return to presence
I know this scenario is still being played out
In to many places in this world today
Writing this, wondering why I was given
This glimpse of a very present past
~~~
2015