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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book... “New Moon” Down in the Dirt (v135) (the March/April 2016 Issue) You can also order this 6"x9" issue as a paperback book:

Order this writing in the book A Stormy Beginning the Down in the Dirt Jan. - June 2016 collection book		get the 318 page Jan. - June 2016 Down in the Dirt issue anthology 6" x 9" ISBN# paperback book:

Young Siddhartha

David Sapp

A small statue of Buddha,
the lad, Siddhartha Gautama,
sits cross-legged on my desk,
his smile serene;
however, my prayer wheel stopped
spinning when I dwelled on this:

Siddhartha, the prince, wanted
for nothing and saw nothing,
his smile serene behind tall,
gleaming, palace walls
at the foot of the Himalayas,
where the air was cold and thin,

until, on a stroll, he felt
the soil of his kingdom beneath
his feet, rather than smooth,
colorful tile, thick, rich carpet,
until his desire to comprehend
an old man, a corpse, a beggar.

At twenty-nine, Siddhartha left
his princess, sheer silks and gold
bangles sliding on her hips;
her serene smile, her lips,
her dark nipples, the color of earth
and dates, would not keep him.

Siddhartha left his infant son, Rahula,
after dubbing him “little fetter,”
wriggling karmic manacle,
no bliss, no enlightenment
in the curve of her arms,
his son’s serene smile a tether.

At thirty-five, after six years
and two gurus, his empty ribs
unsatisfied with ascetic life
(Was all that near-death necessary?),
and knowing, however hobbled, he could
return to his father’s sumptuous table,

after forty-nine days and nirvana –
finally, no crying baby –
Siddhartha found his serene smile
under the leaves and figs of the Bodhi tree,
the Buddha, an open, white lotus
floating above the mud. And yet,
the Buddha did not return to his wife, his son.

It occurred to me, now twenty
years older than the Buddha,
perhaps Siddhartha was simply
a naïve and foolish young man.
Oh, what an exquisite flaw!
My smile is serene.

At eighty, the Buddha concluded,
his smile still very serene,
he mastered the shackles of his samsara,
the endless, dizzy spin of birth and death.
Maybe, just maybe, Siddhartha
might have gone round again.

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