A horde of sunflowers
Grows on thin stalks
With big, bright heads
That tilt chin-upwards.
Could they stand so tall
And proudly if they weren't
Packed against each other?
When one bitch-slaps a sunflower,
One expects its head to fly
Clean off, but it just does
An angry little head bobble,
And goes about its business,
Looking skyward...
Though - occasionally - one breaks
Into a sad nod.
On a sandy beach,
I think of each grain
of sand as being
the same.
But on a pebble beach,
Each stone has its own
color, texture, size,
and shape.
It's made me second guess
What I know about beaches.
The saying goes:
“No mud - no lotus!”
But I can’t help but notice
That the flower is long-stemmed,
Raising it high above the mud.
A tropical newbie,
I used to confuse
Lotuses & Water Lilies.
Then I learned the simplest
Way to distinguish the flowers
(From a distance)
Is that Lily pads
Rest on the water,
While Lotus leafs
Also try to rise
above the muddy water.
I can’t help but wonder whether
Our admiration has made the
Lotus too good for its mud?
The fog envelopes me.
I draw vivid pictures
on its white surface.
I don't know how I do it,
But I know why.
It's a craving:
To fill emptiness,
To disallow silence.
The fog's texture is
Subtle, but existent.
Should I not sketch my story
On that white surface,
But rather give it my attention
then I might see that texture,
and then see it clearly,
and - eventually - feel it
as I glide my hand
though space...
Blind and at ease.
Morning Glories
don’t feel slighted
because they bloomed
in the shadow of
Mexican Sunflowers…
Though the humans
who otherwise might
stop to admire them
can now not be
bothered to notice them.
You glow in my heart
Like the flames of uncounted candles.
But when I go to warm my hands,
My clumsiness overturns the light,
And then I stumble
Against the tables and chairs.
This is how the wind shifts:
Like the thoughts of an old human,
Who still thinks eagerly
And despairingly.
The wind shifts like this:
Like a human without illusions,
Who still feels irrational things within her.
The wind shifts like this:
Like humans approaching proudly,
Like humans approaching angrily.
This is how the wind shifts:
Like a human, heavy and heavy,
Who does not care.
The apparition of these faces in a crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
The floating feather
that eludes my grasp
isn't haughty or gleeful.
It just rolls, slips, glides,
and is gone.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 