The straight-stemmed turbines
are tattletales,
telling all about the stealthy
thief sneaking overhead.
With no clouds in the sky,
the wind could slip
out over the treetops,
and no one would know.
But the turbines turn,
slow as Taiji titans,
letting no movement
go untaxed.
Mountains are the
Lamborghini of weather --
from gray and dismal to
gloriously sunny
and back again
in record time.
It may rain and the droplets
burn off before noon,
leaving no trace of
the gloom.
One day may feel
multiple ways before
the sun goes down.
The human mind isn't
built for such whiplash
emotional experience.
The light of day's end
brings out the sandy
grit of the arid
landscape.
The light of day's end
matches & compounds
the color of the
desiccated vegetation.
The light of day's end
turns the world
into someplace new --
somewhere I've never
been before.
My body knows this is
nothing like Mars;
my mind does not.
In Winter,
when blue sky shows
between the twiggy,
bare branches,
the forest is not so
claustrophobic,
but sound and wind,
alike,
carry through.
A mind can roam
between the bracing
breezes.
Opening bleary eyes,
back on a cold, hard surface...
I know not where...
All I see,
All I know,
is a confluence of
sharp pointed tips:
hard points of unknown purpose
from which my brain attempts
to gauge a distance as
they come into razor clear
focus.
What hard robotic purpose
have these mean tines?
Does the bug
atop a wildflower
think itself master
of all it surveys?
the lion wind blows.
all about is rippling chaos,
but for the goddess
who dances in the
furious center,
pausing on one foot
as the dust swirls
in angry spasms.
From the dark depths
of a temple,
eyes open & blink
against the sunlight
pouring through
a narrow second set
of eyes.
What shapes form across
the way?
It's the roof of a second --
more ancient -- temple
that stands across
the street.
This monk has opened
eyes on that view a
thousand times before,
and each time has
forgotten the centuries
old neighboring temple
existed.
The reclining Buddha oversees
the diligent seated Buddha.
Is this an analogy of the mind,
or just a monk's proclivity
toward a superabundance
of Buddhas?
Everyone gets to be a person,
Few become icons:
What is it to have a lasting
image more well-known
than one's work?
Che Guevara, Bruce Lee,
Heath Ledger's Joker --
Images you can find on
back-alley walls from Lagos
to Prague to Kochi
to Seoul to Santiago
and back again.
Seen day-after-day by people
who never saw Enter the Dragon
or read of the Cuban Revolution,
or saw Nolan's Batman Trilogy,
but they know the faces.
They have thoughts about them
-- and, sometimes, strong feelings --
just like so many people have
thoughts about Alexander the Great
based solely on his name
and a rough impression of history.
What must this be...
blessing or curse ...
if icons had some way to care?
Tiger Riding for Beginners 