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.