Stories & Movement

DAILY PHOTO: Prayer Flags, Khardung-la

Taken in the Summer of 2016 at Khardung-la

 

POEM: Sweep

Bristles flex against the flagstone.

Like Bruce Lee with his nunchaku,

she works two brooms at once.

Unlike Bruce,

she lacks fury and showmanship.

She’s oblivious an audience has formed.

Like Bruce, her body is coordinated,

capable of describing two arcs,

in two separate directions,

at once.

The soft scraping sounds

of two bundles of bristles

is the neighborhood’s wake-up call.

The hush whispers of leaves skittering

is the subdued scream

that cannot be ignored.

Like a demonic whisper,

all that’s quiet is not gentle.


[National Poetry Month, Poem #23]

POEM: Ghost Ship


with each wave swell

metal rasped on rock

a grating demon squeal

where’d it come from

surely, not from Liberia

despite the flag’s claim

drifting across high seas

it found a suitable grave

on an unknown rocky shoal


[National Poetry Month: Poem #22]

POEM: Tsunami

She flips a sheet over the line,

smoothing it by pulling the ends wide.

Looking out to a vague and distant rumble,

she sees a wall of water climb from the sea.

A crazy person would smile at the idea of

putting laundry out to dry in a tsunami.

But, sanely, she runs for high ground.

Everything she owns is soon to be debris,

unclaimable, indistinguishable, and unsanitary.

But she doesn’t think about that.

She can’t think about anything.

Zen mind is her saving grace.

 If she thought about how

tripping, struggling to her feet,

and resuming a limpy run

would spell her doom,

She’d trip, fall, sprawl

and be pummeled

by flotsam–

that chunky stew of humanity’s refuse.


[National Poetry Month: Poem #21]

POEM: How to See an Asylum in Six Easy Steps

Source: Wikipedia by Evan-Amos





Step I: Sit in a crowded cafe.
Raise your hand to your face.
Stare into the palm of your hand.
Flex fingers until suitably awed.



Step II: Flip your hand over.
See the sliding subcutaneous tissue,
as you make and release a fist.
Continue to feel the awe.



Step III: Wriggle your fingers in
all permutations of one and two.
Cycle: grasp, release, and repeat.
Revel in the glory of manipulation.



Step IV: Continue as the summoned
Officer inquires about ingestion of
psilocybin, mescaline, ayahuasca, or
various three-letter substances.



Step V: Verbally, politely acknowledge the
Officer as you continue to note the
details of intricate hand movement.
Said Officer will ask, “So, what’s going on?”



Step VI: Answer truthfully and politely:

“I’ve never really seen my hand before.
Never noted it’s vast range of dexterity.
Tight enough to hold a sledge hammer.
Light enough to hold a bug harmlessly.
Fingertips can detect infinitesimal
variations in temperature and texture.
I can even tell a Vulcan–
should I ever see one–
to ‘live long and prosper’
merely by abducting finger pairs.”



At this point, the Officer will need
to consult with his superior to make
a determination about whether you
constitute a danger to self or others.



Now, if you put a phone in the
aforementioned palm, no one
will give it a moment’s notice.
Still, think you can recognize sanity?



[National Poetry Month, Poem #20]

DAILY PHOTO: Brahmashram of Nandi Hills, Inside & Out

Taken in October of 2013 at Nandi Hills

 

 

Brahmashram is an ascetic’s cave located on the hillside at Nandi Hills. It’s most famous occupant was the sage Ramakrishna Paramahansa (1836 – 1886), who was a teacher of Swami Vivekananda.

POEM: Kittens Can’t Get Their Legs

Little kittens can’t get their legs.

Feet slide as legs sprawl wide.

Writhing amid a pile of siblings.

Wrangled and nudged by mama.

Tiny screams for leeway ungranted.

Bellies bulge with mama’s milk.

They don’t yet look like miniature cats.

They have neither the proportions nor the ears.

They could as well be puppies or opossums.

From any distance mama sanctions.


[National Poetry Month: Poem #19]

DAILY PHOTO: Grey Langur in a Tree

Taken in Jaipur in November of 2015

POEM: The Brew

Gulp.

Silence.


He awaits the sacred geometry,

but is greeted by the purge.

Emptied.

Turned inside-out.

All is lost.

Violently vacated.


But then how come

a dragon comes sliding through

a nightmare too entrancing

to be terrifying.

There’s no slither.

Just a silent slide.

It slides, it slides.

On a silent ride.


There are two types of eternity.

Neither is cheap but one is free.

He just needs to discover

of what it’s free.


[National Poetry Month: Poem #18]

POEM: Sitting

I feel the swell,

but can’t see the boat.

Let alone know whether

it contains passengers.

It’s night.

The sea is dark,

and the most I can hope for

is a glint against the hull.

If I look to where the glint was,

She’s gone.

Tune to the

rise and fall

of the swell.

 

[National Poetry Month: Poem #17]

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