Okinawa: that war-torn Pacific key;
Seek out the shrine kept hidden
Near where mourners weep.
Here, no Torii gate divides
Sacred from profane,
Crawl space and stalagmite pillars,
The only markers guiding the way.
Should curiosity drive you
Where you were never meant to be,
You’ll find baby Buddha
Waiting patiently.
Enclosed by golden lotus flowers,
Maitreya’s forebear sits alone,
Shrouded by nightless night
Without blanket, milk, or throne.
Seven steps into the underworld:
Hanamatsuri dyed in gloom,
Celebration of Spring
Forgotten in a tomb,
Moses hidden in his basket,
Yaldabaoth veiled in a cloud,
Tanjobutsu tucked in Shimuku-gama:
Okinawa’s god-filled bowels.
Hecate, torch-bearer, what madness
Caused the matriarch priestess to rebel
And abandon orphaned Buddha
On the steps of Hell?
Maya, did you know?
Your son sat front row, center seat,
Perfect view of dread truth:
Mass-suicide, misery.
Maya, Illusion,
Where were you then?
When mothers were given hand-grenades?
Who, with love, pulled the pins
As though they hadn’t, just yesterday,
Taught them games and words
As though their first steps weren’t their last,
As though reincarnation could ever be a comfort
For mothers not yet called “Mama.”
Exodus emerged from wicker Demiurge
Imperfect, at least, made life.
Tanjobutsu, though, sits static
Encased in earth, veiled in chthonic night.
Outside the cave, a peaceful scene:
Trees and gentle wind,
As though nature could ever cloak
That which was wrought by men.
Should Ryukyu’s cave become the womb
From which Maitreya rises,
Ask why those in Shimuku lived
While those in Chibichiri died.
Ask what we’ve learned
And whether we remember
While the hidden shrine of Shimuku-gama
Collects ash, its yearly tribute.
