A small arc of sun
stands above the trees
Like the tufts of hair
that give away the
hiding boy who can’t
judge hairdo height.
The next time I turn around,
I see Sun -- fully out and
stalking up behind me,
looming larger.
Infinite golden Buddhas
stretch along the path.
Each step occurs
in the presence of one
and the presence of all
and the presence of none --
simultaneously.
Bleary-eyed drunks
stagger down the street;
Eyes drawn to
orbs of color,
Looking up,
the lanterns become
planets.
Spinning spheres of
vertiginousness
that send tipsy chappies
face first into terra firma.
Through the inky night,
flies an orange spark.
And then there's darkness
once more.
And then a spray of sparks
arc through the dark.
And then there's darkness
once more.
And then there is a flame,
and darkness is held at bay...
tentatively.
The ocean vast
closes in.
Clouds drop.
If the horizon still exists,
it's behind an approaching
wall of gray.
Whatever is closing down
the world has also
drained it of color.
The shadows are black.
The sea foam is white.
Everything else is
some dim, earthy tone.
The sea may have retained
a hint of green or blue,
but it's hard to tell --
so darkened &
gray-infused
are the waters.
I fear the world may shrink
to a dot, like an old timey TV
snapped off, a dot that's
bright white but cold.
green-topped granite.
a gnarled evergreen
clings to the side --
clings without clinging,
effortlessly jutting out
over the chasm
to feel the sun & wind.
Rangikura: Poems by Tayi Tibble
A giant tiger stalks,
baring teeth, tensing claws,
closing the distance
in deep shadows that exist
entirely within the man's mind.
While others, from safe distances,
can see the fearsome beast clearly.
A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.
And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.
A Year of Last Things: Poems by Michael Ondaatje
Tiger Riding for Beginners 