
waves crashing
on a rain-darkened shore
lull me to sleep,
as pelted boatmen
tug their boats inland

waves crashing
on a rain-darkened shore
lull me to sleep,
as pelted boatmen
tug their boats inland

I’m a traveler —
attached only to the place
tethered to my now.
That’s the only place
that exists in any real sense.
The past has no reality
in the present - not really.
It’s a ghost,
a dim and fuzzy figment.
Only thorns of the moment
can prick me.
Past disasters hold no sway,
&
future calamities are acts
of imagination.

the stone monkeys
at the temple entrance seem
less than inviting

volcanic rock
at the sea’s edge; where
lava met its match

cornstalk beetle
bigger around than the stalk:
bad at hide-n-seek

clouds conform
to a volcanic cone
like a blanket

a dragonfly lands
on a lotus seed head
without making sway

the monkey sage sits —
not napping, but looking so,
on the temple wall

an orb weaver
sets its trap by trail’s edge, &
catches one gawker

two roosters
on a paddy dike:
a flash of black