Ramanagara Hill
Land where granite domes bubble up,
blistering the forest.
Callousing its broad swath of green
with an ashen gray nest.
I know your echo from the land
where I once took my rest,
in those long gone days before I
set off on life’s grand quest.
Stone Mountain
In 2002, I took a stroll in the marketplace and discovered I couldn’t get out. I was never lost, but neither could I escape the market. When I got home, I found that the market had spread into my home — into my very bedroom. Later, I realized that it had even dropped into my pocket, and I was carrying it with me everyplace I went. I caught a flight, thinking that — even if it caught up with me upon arrival — I’d have a few hours of precious freedom. No such luck. There, in the seat pocket.
I’ve resolved to die in the marketplace, a consumed consumer. At least the flowers will be near at hand.
I’ve ridden the rails
spooked by horn wails,
yet still rode.
I’ve hiked hills and dales
caught in rains and gales,
but still strode.
I’ve watched wind fill sails,
holding pail to bail —
will still flowed.
The morning sun has broken through the trees.
Its yellow light is dancing on the tent.
The fly is flapping gently in the breeze.
Some droplets rolling down — oh, did it freeze?
The night is gone; I know not where it went,
but morning sun has broken through the trees.
My sleeping bag stayed ninety-eight degrees.
The earth and trees are still, and stand content,
only the fly flaps gently in the breeze.
I must get up; I have a day to seize,
but sleeping bag and chill have got me pent,
though morning sun has broken through the trees.
I force myself up onto hands and knees.
some birds are chirping, but the beasts seem spent —
hush, but the flapping gently on the breeze.
That stillness and sunshine put me at ease —
no time to mourn or sing the night’s lament.
The morning sun has broken through the trees;
my tent is flapping gently in the breeze.
The temple bell clangs long and loud.
It calls them all from far and near.
How’ll they come remains so unclear.
Could be in ones — could be in crowds.
They’d straggle in with their heads bowed —
feigning piety to hide their fear.
That temple bell clangs long and loud
to call them all from far and near.
Some seem so proud, but most are cowed,
their darting eyes first peek, then peer.
They hope to find the one that’s dear
before the Scout picks what he’s allowed.
That temple bell clanged long and loud.
I stare into a rushing stream.
For me, time flows as in a dream.
But the stream knows only one flow —
its tune an endless allegro.
Lord willing -n- the creek don’t run dry.
A flare, like a blinding flashlight, shines at the fore
Puddles of deep crimson crawl laterally — as if that bright dot was the wound
At the periphery, all the hues of bruising — indigo to a shade of purple indistinguishable from black
The colors tuned up by the heat of inflammation felt — but not seen — in the cold view of one beaten to the edge of life
As well as, by the harsh lighting — blues and reds dancing from lightbars and wig-wags of police cars and fire trucks — shining over the carnage.
A vein of graphite gray clouds glide — low and fast — under a static white ceiling. No patches of blue peek through, today. Oh, where are those fast blackened clouds sailing at such a clip? And are the high white clouds truly still, or does the contrast with these fast clouds hide some sluggish drift. Maybe the higher clouds are too uniform — stretching out to all horizons — for motion to be seen.
Is this low layer of rushing clouds some kind of smoke monster or a drunkard’s dragon? Seems too motivated to just be water vapor.
A flower by a creek,
swaying like a metronome.
Its bright and bulbous head
sits atop a skinny stalk
Oh, are you counting time?
Or is time foreign for you?
Your scent rides on the air.
Your petals flame bright yellow.
Your every aspect
is a call for attention,
and yet you bow your head
like a dog caught in the act.
Humans are believing machines.
If one can imagine a thing,
one can make it one’s reality.
Under an infinite night sky,
with nothing to grasp in one’s hands,
the mind still seizes its fair share.
But the test of whether one can
grab onto something new is whether
you can let go of the old.
