“Sha-dray, Sha-dray, Sha-dray, Sha-dray, Sha-dray,”
So went my TM mantra every day,
For twenty minutes first thing in the morn
And then again at eve, or be forlorn
For having broken faith with my routine
Designed to scour my harried conscience clean
Restoring me to blessed tranquility,
Re-centered in a blissful ecstasy.
Yet I’ve long since abandoned that routine
Replacing it with one that makes me keen
Instead of calm, though when I’m done—delight;
It’s what I’m doing now: I sit and write
And slowly watch some mystery unfold,
Then find that I’ve a sonnet to behold.