When the summer fields are mown,
When the birds are fledged and flown,
And the dry leaves strew the path;
With the falling of the snow,
With the cawing of the crow,
Once again the fields we mow
And gather in the aftermath.
Not the sweet, new grass with flowers
Is this harvesting of ours;
Not the upland clover bloom;
But the rowen mixed with weeds,
Tangled tufts from marsh and meads,
Where the poppy drops its seeds
In the silence and the gloom.
mountain hermit
looks over the city…
turns, walks back to hut.
sunbeams pass through
a reddened Sacred Fig:
one hundred warm hues.
socked in for weeks:
clouds dissipate to reveal
forgotten mountains.
Only the Blessed of Lethe's dews
May stoop to drink. And yet,
Were their Elysium mine to lose,
Could I, sans all repining, choose
Life's sorrows to forget?
Explosion in slow motion
Rocks the boats that line the ocean:
Swaying, swaying, they swing to and fro!
Metronomic masts set to tempo, s l o w.
Sans fear of dying,
The angst of trying
Is felt and left
To float.
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?
Tiger Riding for Beginners 