Open Door


Standing on a street corner

waiting for a bus

in front of the Comex paint store.

Move out to the steet

to see,

to see,

but no, not yet,

not yet,

so back to the shade,

the shade,

on the sidewalk, on cement,

no place to sit,

taxis swirling around dolfins

that are dividing the street,

then cars, trucks, motorscooters,

exavation machinery,

secondary schoolers necking in the shadows,

women with small children, workers,

waiting for the same bus,

going home,

between organized areas,

with heavy bags,

and then,

I see it,

I see it,

coming down the frontage road,

gliding up to the curb,

it has arrived, it has arrived,

before us, right here,

before us,

right here.

with open door.


Russell Rosander

2/27/16 Melaque, Jal. Mx

I Bow To The Physical



I bow to the physical today.

I accept it’s many discomforts,

it’s limitations, it’s cruelty,

it’s unbearable weight, it’s depravations,

it’s beauty and it’s pleasures, it’s joyfulness,

the price we pay for it,

it’s suffering,

it’s pain, it’s temporality.

Today, I will offer no complaint

because, surely, one day

it will defeat me

and I will be rid of it at last.

and only then,

will I mourn it’s passing

and call it beloved.

Russell Rosander

2/24/16 Barra de Navidad, Mx

Beyond The Amnion



How does one seek without seeking,

do without doing,

be without being,

ask without asking,

and who is there to ask?

The paradox confounds me.

I stare into the void of my not knowing

until trees grows before my eyes,

grasses sprout, mature, seed and die,

until I become a stone standing there

in the cleft of our formation,

until I forget the I who has asked,

and the stone crumbles into nothingness,

and the questions dissolve at last

into the air that bore them from my lips

as if never asked,

and then….

as if a light sparked

in the dark sea of my presence,

the universe is born,

the caul is broken,

and the unveiled answers are revealed.

for no reason.

Russell Rosander

2/23/16 Barrra de Navidad, Mx

There Is No Other



There is no other.

We are truely alone.

We of the blue sky,

of the green earth,

of the high peaks,

and deep valleys

and shinning seas.

No one is watching us,

no one at all,

none but ourself,

spinning in this universe,

this, our sweet illusion,

that includes all the false gods of ego

we struggle with daily,

all pleasure and pain,

joy and sadness,

all the wanting and adversity

that we stress ourselves over.

How can we desire anything

when there is nothing that is not ourselves?

We are fulfilled of grace.

In watering the garden,

I water my own feet,

I drench my soul with the flow

of my own being.

the water of you,

the water of me,

the waters of this earth

flowing through the portal of now,

there is no other,

It’s the same water

that flows through this beautiful flower,

that bird singing to the dawn,

the hairs on your arm

moving gently in the breeze,

that wisp of cloud in the sky,

the rushing river,

all of it.

There is no other.

We are truely alone.

We are never alone,

We are all there is.

Russell Rosander

2/20/16 Barra de Navidad

A Vision Of You



Was it yesterday or in some past life

that I sat in your kitchen,

or some lovely place deep within,

by a window with the curtains

rustling lightly

in a warm breeze?

You were a vision

just standing there,

in that imposibly clear crystaline air,

like a dream, but then,

that couldn’t have been,

because you were not yet born.

A vignette then,

a picture, an image perfect,

made by some sainted artist

in a world where perfection

does not exist,

except for the perfection of you.

But, of course,

it was just a moment

and then that moment became another.

and you just slipped away,

something never meant to be,

or a promise

of something yet to come.

Russell Rosander 2/11/16

Barra de Navidad

Half Open



The half opened flower,

a guadalajara, a magenta hued zinnia,

that began with a seed

that was carried here in the wild winds

of a raging hurricaine.

Look how the yellowish undersides,

still curl up at the edges of each petal

as they rush slowly towards

their determined positions,

revealing the mother’s struggle

in such poor soil, in such an arid place

of marauding insects and parasites

and tiny fungi

from which she is not seperate,

but bound in perfect harmony

with all creation,

arraying with brilliant color,

the unfolding, expanding, awakening

enevitable thus-ness of it all

fraction by fraction

into the glorious splendor

of light.

Russell Roander 2/9/16

Barra de Navidad, Mx