Outcrop

On this day of dwindling
             rest below chatter of wild parrots
             as sky thickens:
             all is calm, but
             can't relax.

Up the gulch, did rest my hand
             upon matted haunch
             of dying dog.
             Tried to pray
             until boy monk brought the
             owner, who
             brought a rope:
             beyond my capacity.

Found a village down the gulch,
             but feared to enter,
                          for the dogs,
             so I snuck along the rocks
                          slippering brown needles.


Came to India for this.
             But it's draining out
             my finger gaps,
             like clensing amrita
                          spilling onto
                          polished emerald marble.

6th Fast

Lax'n 'neath whirly bot
Next door: they cut and pound.

We just ride ribs of oxygen,
                    tickering time.
                    Nearly a fortnight
                    in the room of painted draperies.

My mouth epoxied shut
                    stale brass upon tongue
                    on this day of missed flights
                                        over weight bags
                                        daughter stranded in Hyderabad.

                    With, a vague  dislocation
                                            frustration:
                                            dollars into minutes.

White Butterfly Ridge

This gentle wind bathes me
        on the ridge between Indian devotional songs
                                           and Tibetan trumpets.

         Charred stilts of forest
                       prop the tortured pines' soft foliage:
                                           sliver, green and rust.

This dream of lichened sandstone:
        so familiar; so alien,
        next to yellow path
        traversed by sandled feet
        beneath maroon robes
        and black rustle
        of wandering crow.

Day of Fasting

On thin side of fat moon
             we hunker for morning, when
             sugar cubes will clatter teeth.

But that's tomorrow, not now.

Now is reedy insect counting new stars
             my neck crooked forward and
             aching knees hunching mound of bed covers.

Now is a thin wind in my mouth,
             a patient pulse
             a wetness of saliva
             unplanned words that sliced open Tara's vow.

Vagrant thought flutter
             like airborne termites
             speckling dusk beneath
             Good Friday's pink moon of April.

             (I found one dying by the stupa
              this morning
              four wings still rattling
              as it kept trying to clean its right antenna.)

Now Tara kindly works these knees,
             which surely preclude Nirvana,
             wrecking my posture,
             so I can't sit like a Buddha

             only perch like a
                                           stilted caucasian.

Marigold Bardo of Delhi

On the mend, we have
      set our bags for Dharamshala,
      where monkey brothers wait.

Our brains now packed full blessings.
      our excess slung round
                        in rolls belly fat.

All round, Delhi's arteries clog full
                  this day's CNG rickshaw justle
                  All India Permit, please honk
                  use dipper at night.
                  Grain-fed oxen now ready
                  hoof load bricks,
                  passed by man, woman, son
                  daughter on single seat
                                      motor bike.


Yesterday's festival enveloped us
                  in fabric throng:
                  pink saffron, imperial purple
                  young men flashed sword
                                    clashed sticks
                                    whirled.

We checked our shoes,
      stepped through footbath.
                   lacking turban,
      donned embroidered kerchief
      entered throbbing shrine, to
      circumabulate the holy book
      told by priest wielding
                   purest white pom pom.

      Trio sang the book:
                   harmonium
      and drum.

Now we depart these endless webbed
      canyon neighbourhoods
      street market spice
      and marigold vendors,
      men who push red white striped
      kidtraptions
      (metal, not plastic)
      down centre lane
      of 10 lane 20 k
      traffic jam.

We fly for refuge.
We fly for wisdom.
We fly to glimpse grace
            in each eye of love
            within one thousand
            open palms.

               

2 Pearls

Black Pearl — resplendent.

           Drags peacock   down     under
           below folded knees of Earth.
           Where eyes like cast nets
                       yank us from
                                shore to ruddy
                                          undertow, rippling
                                          below
                                          sturgeon's strand
                                          stuck upon by
                                          scattered dice
                                          shining black
                                          eggs like oyster's onyx
                                                                       below sea.

White Pearl — unleashed.

           Hovering impatience over petals
           then split night
                      like sparkling rocket
                      beyond milky bazaar
                                   rippling as
                                   one of one
                                   trillion billion
                                          upon
                                          great golden
                                          beach of
                                                                       galaxies.