The Bustle in a House
The Morning after Death
Is solemnest of industries
Enacted opon Earth --
The Sweeping up the Heart
And putting Love away
We shall not want to use again
Until Eternity --
tree that sprawls
twists & winds chaotically:
strength from crazy
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?
An egg delivery guy from Bangalore:
2,000 eggs on a scooter, door-to-door.
If his bike ever tipped,
He’d be severely whipped,
For his job was all-or-nothing & nothing more.
By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,
Here once the embattled farmers stood
And fired the shot heard round the world.
The foe long since in silence slept;
Alike the conqueror silent sleeps;
And Time the ruined bridge has swept
Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.
On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set today a votive stone;
That memory may their deed redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.
Spirit, that made those heroes dare
To die, and leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare
The shaft we raise to them and thee.
Sung at the Completion of the Battle Monument, July 4, 1837
There once was a pirate of Malacca,
Who liked ramen and chow mein and hakka.
He'd eat any noodles
by the oodles and oodles,
But, with no fiber, he couldn't make caca!
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.
church at dusk
looks shuttered and vacant, then
door creak, candle flame
The little boy lost in the lonely fen,
Led by the wand'ring light,
Began to cry; but God, ever nigh,
Appear'd like his father in white.
He kissed the child & by the hand led
And to his mother brought,
Who in sorrow pale, thro' the lonely dale,
Her little boy weeping sought.
flower cluster hangs
through a cold December --
the last leaf lone gone.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 