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?
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.
Morning Glories
don’t feel slighted
because they bloomed
in the shadow of
Mexican Sunflowers…
Though the humans
who otherwise might
stop to admire them
can now not be
bothered to notice them.
You glow in my heart
Like the flames of uncounted candles.
But when I go to warm my hands,
My clumsiness overturns the light,
And then I stumble
Against the tables and chairs.
This is how the wind shifts:
Like the thoughts of an old human,
Who still thinks eagerly
And despairingly.
The wind shifts like this:
Like a human without illusions,
Who still feels irrational things within her.
The wind shifts like this:
Like humans approaching proudly,
Like humans approaching angrily.
This is how the wind shifts:
Like a human, heavy and heavy,
Who does not care.
The apparition of these faces in a crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.
The floating feather
that eludes my grasp
isn't haughty or gleeful.
It just rolls, slips, glides,
and is gone.
Ah, the mountain!
Old enough to know
When to stay quiet,
And disciplined enough
To stick to it.
I WOULD be as ignorant as the dawn,
That has looked down
On that old queen measuring a town
With the pin of a brooch,
Or on the withered men that saw
From their pedantic Babylon
The careless planets in their courses,
The stars fade out where the moon comes,
And took their tablets and made sums--
Yet did but look, rocking the glittering coach
Above the cloudy shoulders of the horses.
I would be -- for no knowledge is worth a straw --
Ignorant and wanton as the dawn.
What spills from the brush?
What shapes are made
on the page?
What curves? What lines?
What crosses? What binds?
Who will chase after the sparks
of meaning in those wild marks?
Tiger Riding for Beginners 