Poetry
Butterflies
Small flashes of purest yellow
flutter about my naked feet
and then carelessly saunter over a bush of long spiraling leaves
to return fearlessly to the dangerous realm of mortals
tracing all the miniscule breezes we cannot follow,
these tiny velvet canvasses
are slim powdery angels
vulnerable and homeless
and yet they bless our troubled world
with incarnate beauty,
as perhaps we might
if we were a carnival of colorful kites
sharing our charms with others -
and not a chaotic scramble
of blinkered greed.
The Birds​
Our lives are short
And our minds fleeting
We reflect upon nothing
- Yet we can fly
We can soar above the trees
Dart in and out of bushes
At mind-boggling speeds
All our chatter
Is direct and to the point!
- Whereas you are stuck to the ground
Far below us
Hobbling like heavy grubs
Getting lost amongst yourselves
Inventing devices to compensate you
For all your handicaps
Your lives are one long search
A maze of diversions
A swamp of frustrated dreams.
Souvenirs
The Imperial War Museum -
How we massacred them
how many we massacred,
How they massacred us
how many they massacred,
What we used
what they used,
How clever we all were!
Anyone for souvenirs?
By the stream of Castle Farm
I stepped into the shallow stream
and sunk in up to my shoulders
beginning to gently swim I wondered
that not all things appearing shallow
were as shallow as they seemed
that depth could indeed be deceiving
and as I wondered
as my body wandered through
the cool flowing water
a dragonfly alighted upon my forehead
and told me a story
about a green palace
made of heart-shaped leaves
that floated in the centre of the stream
a small lifetime away.
The Earth's Prayer​
Our Earth
Is all around us
The evidence for which
Is radiantly clear
We praise you
For your boundless richness and diversity
Your universal kindness
In entertaining our existence
We love and appreciate you
For every breath we take
For the elements without which
We could not endure another instant
We admire and appreciate
Your tolerance of our rampaging greed
And your endless fertility
That nourishes and sustains us
Providing these naive lodgers
With priceless gifts
From which we have developed our vain knowledge
And gained unfathomable inspiration
Oh Earth
Forgive us for out trespasses
And belief in groundless religion
Our grand delusions
And allow us the time
To become mature enough
To make amends
For our relentless plunder
Of your eternal blessings
Calm
I am sitting
in the temple’s garden,
large memorial rocks
stand planted
on the brushed sand;
Buddhist sutras
carved into them
- patterns of Chinese pictographs…
By the fragile bamboo fence
on the fine bleached gravel
cherry blossom petals rest
like delicate fingerprints,
- farewell notes
from the overhanging tree,
Dizzy bees hover
in the filtered sunlight,
With blind faith
fearless ants explore my shoes…
The grand old tree
of Shijonawate
stands powerfully
to my left,
as three yellow and black
butterflies
descend from the twisted branches
and flutter wildly
about each other
like long lost friends,
- reunited once more
in the last days
of April.
All the games we played
I woke up this morning
With an image in my head
I suddenly recalled
And dwelled upon
Even at the threshold of sleep
The edge of a tennis court
Green with white stripes
Where it was
I cannot exactly say
I suspect it was in Golden Gate Park
But it could have been all tennis courts
Mingled poignantly into one
It was place, a sentimental marker
Signifying the last game of tennis
That I ever played
With my brother Steph
Yes, it was the tip of a mountain
Of passionate rivalry
Between myself and my brothers
3 boys fiercely vying for stardom
Competitive fever at its most delirious
In every sport accessible
Vehicles for individual glory
That would define us for months
All the games we played
On concrete, grass and sand
Fresh and wild were we
Battles in green parks
Playgrounds and sandy beaches
Egos on the rampage
Winners or losers
Teenage warriors on the loose
Yet on reflection
I miss all that craziness
And more than anything else
I miss my brother’s youth
Our single-minded youth
Where all was life or death
All was won or lost
And nothing in-between
The taste of glory
Sweet revenge
Elevating us for ever
Just the tennis courts remain
The empty football fields
The dervishes
The little hurricanes have grown old
The passion has dwindled
And I laugh
At that microcosm of adrenalin
But my laughter is tinged
There is nostalgia
For all those games we played
Nature’s Watery Cloak
Beside a pond
of shadowy emerald
I sit dazzled
by secret and fearless jewels ~
naked and marvellous
seen and unseen
rivulets in nature’s cloak…
Floating gently, the timeless turtle
pushes through her liquid mantle
chewing upon a beard of algae,
Talented mallards preen themselves
on the arched trunk of a fallen oak
a bridge dying over holy water,
An iridescent blue dragonfly
skims the layered green ~
a mirror of warped reflections
beneath the dual magic
of her gossamer wings,
Inquisitorial blackbirds climb down
from invisible stairs of air
softly alighting upon the rolling earth
to peck out a territory with innocent arrogance,
Then as if from a foreign universe
a glistening hummingbird
presents itself at the speed of light
examines a blossom of sweet promises
rises directly into a dusty ray of sunlight
and darts inexplicably
into a nameless future
- its motorised flight
a crimson blur to the eye,
The turtles remain unmoved
mounted upon the other
red rimmed eyes transfixed
upon markings in their shells ~
possibly unaware of the existence
of hummingbirds,
And all are drawn, carved, illustrated
deeply embroidered or subtly embossed
- perhaps tattooed with divine blood
upon nature’s dazzling watery cloak
by slender fingers reaching down like sizzling wands from the distant stars…
