“From the Piano Bench”
by Ben Bussewitz
separated by a corridor,
family and hospital bed,
the old man frozen in fear,
he stares right into passing
as in the eyes of an owl.
outside they congregate
varnished in blankets of snow,
translucent air heavy over,
the woman who once loved him
replaced acknowledgment
with injunction, control,
a putting over, i can see,
of a riverbed’s erosion,
the price of the memory
of anchoring on the quay,
buenos aires dissolved into
an anguishing imagination,
the sailor forever a ghost.
what she did she had to do.
as true as the constellations
are to an itinerant wise man
to her is duty. i remember
through an ochre-tinted filter
it was another special day,
life goes on,
onward goes the rub and hustle,
the baking of bread and turning it,
rather, to feed where you are heading;
i found the creek’s estuary,
enigmatic as the phoenix’s
wisdom, hieroglyphics
of speculation the summer
the nile left us in wanting.
the shadows were darker,
but benzoin-epiphytic moss
crusted on the red alters,
the tide’s swelling contained
in a golden thurible pendulum,
a mist promising of escape
from disenchantment, refraction
of the wide-eyed spectrum
passing from just to more.
so i’d take it where it’d go
and as i waded the rivulet
day turned into night,
the clay of the current
into coarse sediments,
until there was nothing
but trickles and darkness,
thirst and being.
on the outer periphery
of existence all that exists
is existence itself.
i gazed across the border
that separates being
from not being
until i discovered
an impossible shape
of an unknown color,
my coveted paradox,
and stepping through
i came upon light anew,
a greater luminosity
in wisdom and understanding,
and there i found You.
casual was her approach,
a conditioned reverence
for order. nebulous snow
in chaos descended upon
the stately monument of lee
and the inscriptions on benches.
she was speaking of family,
who, what, and when,
in her grave tone of gravity
but i couldn’t hear her.
my mind in a vacuum,
accompanying her
to the revolving door
divorced from body.
in his time at the nursing home
his health degenerated
in a slow but steady pace.
smothered in loneliness,
he felt like a dehydrated rose,
his words he couldn’t speak.
what were his thoughts worth?
he danced in his wheelchair
and lived according to gratitude
while wishing economies
would adopt the morals
of major monotheistic religions.
he knew balancing the budget
meant cutting military spending,
understanding the war machine
just keeps getting bigger
all across the Earth,
a trend that had to be reversed
through diplomacy, transparency, and
a spirit of international cooperation.
the ethics of common sense.
he survived five heart attacks.
he was resolute on living.
i passed through the reception area
with her, watching the fish tank,
remembering square dancing
to the accordion in starlight.
he’d received his last rites.
it was my turn to say goodbye.
we stepped out of the elevator
and the activity coordinator
told us the extent of his sadness.
the old man was a character
and he brought a playful spirit.
i entered his small bedroom
and faced his quiet presence.
we enjoyed our last moments and
i told him what i’d read in the Sanskrit,
he was a good man who’d go to Heaven.
when traversing trails through the forest
i once fixated on the ground before me.
now my eyesight roams
with unfettered freedom.
on my way to my hermitage,
i caught wind of a plaintive melody
cooing from the distance
with authenticity and deepness
of expression, a female voice,
solitary, profound, and dignified.
i parted the path and followed
the spring of the music.
her voice became my compass
and my past receded into my wake
as the inconsequential circumstances
that led to the convening of our spirits,
my movement toward her song.
i could begin to make out the words,
For some we loved, the loveliest and the best
That from his Vintage rolling Time hath rest,
Have drunk their Cup a Round or two before,
And one by one crept silently to rest.
i hastened as her substance took on form.
it felt as though i was gliding to the cadences,
free of fret, the rhythm of forward momentum
in harmony with Earth’s natural balance.
With them the seed of Wisdom did I sow,
And with mine own hand wrought to make it grow;
And this was all the Harvest that I reap’d -
I came like Water, and like Wind I go.
i came to a clearing in the trees and a river,
water leisurely frolicking downstream.
a condor circled above, wings fully outstretched
then careened toward mountains in the distance.
that is where i found her.
as a family of elk forded the river in our direction
i sat beside her on the grass, in her calm.
— where did you learn that song?
— it’s an heirloom of our heritage.
it belongs to the family of the sorrow songs.
black souls delighted the fields and the wildlife
with those strains and nourished their astral cores.
these people, they didn’t have their own home,
their own time, their own space, their own freedom.
they didn’t have anything but themselves.
so what do they do? they sing.
— and you sing their song?
— i sing the song of humankind.
do you see— in the current beside us
is everyone who ever existed,
the pool of nature integrated in one,
the amalgamation of all desire and doing.
i peer into the water and see graceful, varicolored fish,
wisteria and lilacs, olive and elm groves, geysers and wells,
and i ponder, understanding how little i understand.
it occurs to me the answer to her riddle is within her
so i look into her eyes and suddenly i have vision.
— can you teach me to sing the song of humankind?
— are you a man of virtue?
Pittsford, NY 2025
