Poem #77 of 365

When the orange-jerseyed
Buddhist monks did a head-to
head with the accolytes from
Burma, I knew a battle was
forthcoming.

At the lip-off, the monk from
Dharamsala uttered lyrical
lines from the Dhammapada
while the Tibetan rinpoche
used a wisened tongue to
outline his mouth

as if he was sounding
a singing bowl at a stupa.

It was dizzying, the flashy
frenzy of the saffron robes
swishing this way and that,
as the bare-legged men
hugged and danced
from the starting whistle

to the mid-way timeout
at which point they feasted
on momos and butter tea
and debated the finer points
of Buddhist history.

I saw two monks from
Bhutan battle it out
over the last of the rice,
spitting smiles that could
charm a lion and frothing
with delight in the midwinter's
sun as the Shambhala in
their hearts became
a city for real.

(if Buddhist monks did exhibition sports on ESPN)

copyright 2007 tammy melody gomez