(Short and Not Titled)

what once was, now isn't.

जंगपुरा - Jangpura

Whose twilight pastures whisper emerald songs of welcome
Whose bustling evening commerce flares in darkened doors
Whose laughing children with grandfathers swing in parks at dusk
Whose daily hawkers ride red wagons, ringing bells for their wares
Whose inevitable green gate promises glory, peace, love, and joy
Whose wooden sturdy staircase lifts each climber to the fullest height
Whose phantom, mysterious threshold answers unspoken dreams
Whose gardens upon rooftops call back to distant mountains and hills
Whose yellow absolute moonlight arcs above reaching treetops
Whose memory cannot rest, but only grows stronger by day, by night
Whose homecoming is accepted; and whose joy is understood.

.

Collection of Two-Line Poems, #A

#01
Seeking the profound,
he picks up his pen, but nothing to write.

#02
Ten coins on the table,
one is OK, nine are losing sleep.

#03
Green ink on white page,
his mind, his mind, his mind... explodes.

Not Titled, from a notebook, #1

The palace waving leaf has not the cares of a king,

Though they share the same throne.

Roof tiles that color and stand through time,

Never grow weary, nor have doubt.

History itself sweeps away the dust of human deeds;

It could be reaching its frenzied crescendo.

And individuals are torn by circumstance,

Like the unwilling, un-wanting leaf in the breeze.

[written at 北海 in Beijing, 2011]

The Hall of Wisdom

And so I sit, at long last,

weary from climbing high walls

and treading forbidden streets,

where ancient sternness gives way

to vulgar parades of hungry wonder

and whose corridors,  now

faded in color and dusty in guise,

lead me lonely and alone

into the trappings of

thieves, whose cut-throat

knives gleam in the red flames

of want, beneath the eaves of

The Hall of Wisdom, doors barred

and quiet, I am too early or too

late.  But I wait.

[written at 北海 in Beijing, 2011]

the sadest tangent

two circles
of similar radius
floating through geometric space
full and round in their own ways
meet so briefly
and touch at only one point

White Moon Bye Bye

白白月亮，
白白美女。
白白夜晚，
白白朋友。
白白可能，
白白情侣。

The art and the act of smoking a pipe

When the match is struck, there is a flare and a blaze.
The flame bows low; breathed in to touch the leaf.
Triumphant white bursts emit -
this is fanfare, this is light!

Then you take deep draughts - pulling bright, glowing orange.
Down inside the bowl; dry pops and a crackle.
Oh!  You settle in now.
Sitting back, you recline.

Here, your mind may calm - pensive and ponderous.
The places you've smoked before, the thoughts you've had.
Alone, or with companion.
Drifting to mind, they swirl, then fade:

-- Huddled on a frozen porch - inside, but out --
-- Lady Ithaca's clockface, her footbridge above the falls --
-- Moonlight pacific ocean - endless salty wind --
-- A canyon's sheer wall, rising beside the domed tent --
-- Soft in a jungle's armchair, warm and silent --
-- And now, on institutions' doorstep, in Delhi's heart --

Halfway through is quiet - midlife, and maybe burning out.
But then, always, if you've done it right,
your pipe rekindles, it matures!
This is glory, this is truth!

Contemplation turns to joy - moments stretch to hours.
All that was - you know it will ever be.
And the pipe becomes your hair,
your clothes, your fingers, and your face.

This... is the art and the act of smoking a good pipe.