Tiger Riding for Beginners

Traveling Poet Philosopher & Occasional Wiseacre

flowers glow brightly 
in the sunset’s low light,
and then go dark

spring flowers
hang limply, after
the downpour

a cold, rainy day,
but the green grass thrives --
well-watered / air fresh

the scent of death
assaults my nostrils: 
carcass or fungi?

the crow's eye
remains glued on me
as its head swivels

one foot hits puddle.
cold water stings my mind
through a squishy sock

the sprawling courtyard
of the Forbidden City;
army imagined

camphor flowers,
in a disheveled bouquet, 
stretch warmly

two butterflies
stand their ground on the path,
despite footfall quakes

two red bugs mate
on one side of a tree;
on the other: orgy