Up high and dry on a desert plateau,
where robust patches of grass dot bare soil
and rare oases form a green tableau
while desolate sands will not storm or roil.
The rippling temple flags, their color shows,
contrasting colors concrete as gargoyles.
The scrubland’s beauty is without dispute.
Here flags and flowers colors won’t dilute.
Taken in May of 2016 in Dubai.
The walls were painted temple red.
This dream was just that kind of dream.
I saw no feeders nor the fed,
but my deep mind followed that stream
of color from décor to blood.
And seeing it not sacredly
saw red waters rising to flood
and paint the walls a shade deadly.
The jungle paints the ruins green —
brown blocks are made verdant.
So, you can’t see its ordered shape
’til you part the curtain
of palms and vines and mammoth leaves
that hide those old remains —
once hacked back by muscled men who,
daily, took great pains
to clear the rampant jungle growth
out beyond moat and berm.
‘Til the invading army won,
and Fort was deemed infirm.
There’s an orange that warms my soul
when sprightly fires are dead.
It blazes back to old school days,
or the day that I was wed.
It piles the smiles on frozen faces
when they think about long gone places.
Taken in the Summer of 2008 in Shinjuku
Taken in Ueno Park, Tokyo
Oh, the glorious monotony
of mountain skies
an azure dome
in rare air highs
over the brome
And, too, the lake
glassy tranquil
float duck and drake
in mile high chill
A golden streak of light,
glowing off the Ganga
like the opening scene
of a fury-destined manga.
The silent, gliding boats
give way to bells and horns
as sadhus leave the ghats
with the fading of the morn.
Gone the floating lamps and flowers,
so ends that magic orange hour.
