a thousand suns
shine upon my face,
one on my back
golden field
exalts the summer
while it lasts
lone flower
with stem to sun’s rays,
miffed or broken?
flower heads
twisting in unison
rapt attention
speeding by
the sunflowers blur
yet still flame
fog ahead
deafening white noise
hidden falls
staring up
at falls sans water
drought dreams
high falls
water stretches and drifts
violent spatter
waterfalls,
creeping backwards
over eons
suicide, or
the best story ever?
luck of the rocks
the snow falls
silent and slantwise
“KNOCK-KNOCK” ear check
darkness drifted in
between last look and now
wifely cover theft
monsoon rains
awesome from the inside
awful to be in
in India,
seeing no one outside?
Rapture feared
out my window
fiery orange blossoms
are in season
shaggy yak
in Himalaya high
gallops carefree
desert skies
painted impossible hues
scrub and sand
moth wing eyes
so very convincing
owl or “seeing tree”
calm seas
don’t draw sailors
storms do
monkey moments
that mirrored pond,
reflecting us
Heliconia Rostrata
lobster-claw plant
flaming in red and yellow
headless bird stack
coconuts
dimple sands with a thud
tin roof heart attack
seeking relief
from the humidity,
entered greenhouse
little lizard
crawling under the door
take bug duty!
i recall short days
just as i recall cold days
nostalgia trumps truth
painted skies
make mountains puny
by contrast
in thin air
poor sleep paid in
grand skies
Pangong Tso
seen as by the prisoner
from Plato’s cave
a flower
became the pivot
of my mind
thoughts form,
float ephemerally,
then burst
quiet came
my mind wordless
as pictures gel
feel emotion,
but don’t ever feed
that old goat
perfectionist?
the perfect can’t be loved,
only vied for
liquid metal
shape-shifting silver seas
ribbed and rippling
tiny crabs
writing alien script
high tides erase
turquoise water
bound by brown patches
a tidal maze
tiny limpid fish
braver than your bigger peers
drifting as they dart
tsunami swamped
moments under water
forever changed
gleaming steel
plow blade turns the dirt, but
dirt taxes the blade
a weed pulled
in due time, beats one hundred
plucked too late
stalk stubble,
the haggard mourning face
of the field
mile high crazy quilt
viewed by climbing passengers,
brooding nature’s mood
when light is short,
but field days are marathon
harvest gloom
white space,
where readers’ eyes go to
rewrite stories
when thoughts cease,
senseless pictures form;
minds abhor stillness
Plato’s pupil knew:
“nature abhors a vacuum,”
if not much else
the fog wall,
flush with the land’s end,
invites guesses
endless dunes,
stretching far as eyes can see
yet never the same
Tiger Riding for Beginners 