Mighty Fungi, the destroyer,
rending like a divorce lawyer.
There are no bonds you can’t dissolve.
It’s by your graces our world revolves.
Your rap is bad, but we all know,
the pile of stiffs would ceaseless grow,
if you weren’t breaking down the dead.
Plus, we love your work on beer and bread.
Taken in June of 2015 in Great Himalayan National Park, Kullu District, Himachal Pradesh
Lay me down amid the mountains,
where the sky can call to me.
Set me under the falling rains.
Let me flow down to the sea.
I will float up toward the heavens,
and I’ll glide across the sky.
I will tour the Wonders seven
as a tear drop, sans an eye.
Rain down, run down, rise and repeat,
cycling to the end of days,
feeding plants and beating the heat,
heeding the summons of sun rays.
Long vacation in a glacier.
This is just my human nature.
How the feet slow, up amid the ice flow.
Where air is rare, and each step goes higher,
thinking of those who froze or maybe lost a toe,
yet trudged through the scree, the snow, and the mire.
But who’s ever said it wasn’t worth the trip?
You may well hate to feel yourself suffocate,
but you’ll buy your permit, and get all equipped,
strapping on your pack, taking task with fate.
To see the orange glow on the ridgeline,
like fire dancing on the edge of a knife.
But what monster has such a wicked spine,
begging a fight to the last ounce of life.
Please meet the lovely “abode of snows,”
I think you’ll find her worth the throes.
crowded skies,
circling raptors weave
invisible baskets.
little chipmunk,
screeching relentlessly,
stop! all are warned.
rat slinks away
as cat creeps near,
despite edge in size.
popsicle monkey,
crowd coos, “Cute copy-cat,”
idly stuffing faces.
Mumbai leopards?
Hollywood mountain lions?
cats seeking parts?
Taken in April of 2017 in Kaziranga National Park in Assam
On a Brahmaputra tributary in Kaziranga National Park.
Taken in 2009 at Arabia Mountain Park in Georgia; with a splash of red diamorpha
Taken in May of 2018 in Nepal
The arrogance, shoving words into rows,
try to describe someplace only god knows.
A cube of rock, turned edge skywards,
loftily defying each, and all, of my words.
Jolie laide in its craggy perfection,
free from all vanity and dejection.
When it shrouds itself in cloudy veils,
it doesn’t do so because it quails.
It demands no awe and yet has mine.
It is the sacred, sans the shrine,
and, before it, I bow.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 