Art is my solace
progeny I have not had
as none would have me.

I sign my pieces
hashmarks on the bottom-side
dated with care/love.

Zen-thing creations
putting mud into flames
after spinning Oms.

Love is suffused in
for friendships and family
My 'word' to honor.

Making to-do lists
I won't be an ancestor
entropy proved this.

My skill like 'Omar'
drinking wine and making love
a simple potter.

No kudos for me
nor children for the future
regretful failure.

Clay pots will all break
many years in the future
shards of my soul-speak.

I 'will' into life
as my death foreordained it
non-descript passage.

Who cares anyway?
I want my ashes in clay
molded and reworked.

Some future useful
perhaps by a child's fingers
laughing unaware.

Rama