Taken in Leh, from the Shanthi Stupa, in August of 2016
DAILY PHOTO: Castle at Tsemo from Shanthi Stupa
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POEM: Freak Street
In the dim lanes of the circus city,
set wide of the world you’ve come to know,
some part of a person vanishes —
stripped away in silence and without warning —
and whether that’s good or foul
depends on what rabbit-hole you drift into,
how deep you sink,
what hooks you back into the world you recognize,
&
whether that world recognizes you, back.
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POEM: A Dead Winter Stillness
a faintly unnerving stillness burdens the forest
-not a beast scurrying or digging
-no birdcalls of alarm or affection
frost glitters on the rooted earth when the sun cracks through the clouds
but then falls invisible,
leaving that black soil unadorned
what do the hidden creatures smell?
what do the birds that pass silently over this forest know?
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DAILY PHOTO: A Gorge, Looking Down v. Looking Across
POEM: Wayward Memory
I remember the feel of places past
better than I do the sights.
I remember more azure skies
than I do those dark nights.
Of colored lights and germicide
my neurons take their cues;
bringing back a hospital scene,
or long forgotten shoes.
I have a madness of memory
for faults, but not for stars.
But I can’t claim to remember
each time I crashed a car.
I know my memories are lies —
of omission and of fact.
And little can I make the claim
they’re filed neatly in stacks.
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POEM: Dry Fountain Wishes
Sly town stretches along the sea,
backed by sacred mountains.
And amid shabby, city streets
sits a broken fountain.
And when the church bells peal at dusk,
the drunk, they sing out loud.
And all the robbers and the thieves
slip through the gathered crowds.
Pockets are picked and watches slipped
from wrists of the hapless.
On painted women, gooseflesh shows —
their tops low and backless.
The dreamers reach to seize a coin
to pitch in the fountain.
Few direct wishes or appeals
to that ancient mountain.
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DAILY PHOTO: Edo Castle
Taken in the summer of 2008 in Tokyo
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POEM: Breath
Breath unfolds the soul,
expanding a crumpled shell
until it is proudly rotund.
And that air fuels fires —
brightly burning white-hot fires
that flash-fry evil jinns,
into fine, floating soot
One day you’ll know the fuel from the fire.
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DAILY PHOTO: Terskey Ala-too Range
POEM: Memory & Instinct
That castle had a dark passage.
Winding minefields lined the passage.
Each step called for a memory —
an ancient memory scored deeply
in the DNA of man.
But those who rose to temple tops
lacked the instinct and the courage.
So, they chanted each line loudly,
but it didn’t save them from the fall.
