Tag Archives: prose

Forgotten Village – Annapurna Sunrise

The cook pot is blackened
But you easily clean up the mess
With gritty river mud scraped
From your stream of consciousness

Wander up an invisible path
Even the elders don’t know it
Chasing a mysterious girl
Named after an ancient poet

I can’t see her footprints
But I see her shining eye
In the constellations high
Above the blue night sky

Reflection in the mountain lake
Shows me growing worn
But I blink three times quickly
And see that I’m reborn

There’s wisdom plainly hidden
On the edge of mountain cliffs
Stories shared by ancients
Around campfires, becoming myths
Books don’t capture the secrets
For truth look deep into teacups

In this forgotten village
They’re made of bone and marrow
Stubborn as a donkey
Rugged as the buffalo
Giving love like sacred Amma

Monk chants echo through valleys
Low, soft and precise
Repeated through centuries
Many times ever since
Taught by a lost wanderer
With no interest in being found

Prayer flags amplify
Take noble words higher
Attenuate on a frequency
Improbable to detect by wire

I will always return here
Flying high like a hawk or sparrow
Won’t tell you the village name
You find it when you’re able

The maps might give a clue
But not the right directions
You’ll only find the magic
By following inner vision

In the forgotten village
This village is forgotten
Deliberately mistaken
Not meant for finding
Books reveal their secrets
Obvious in endless myth
Your own forgotten village

annapurna - village - house

Peaks – Annapurna Sunrise

Peaks

So many came from overseas
Seeking adrenaline and light
Colored bags filled with dreams and schemes
Forgetting to slow down right

When everyone’s a guide
There’s no one left to lead
There’s power in independence
But more in empathy

Don’t underestimate compassion
Because when walls coming quaking down
If you’ve given freely
Then you always will be found

Don’t think about reaching peaks
Where others have died unfulfilled
Find your own distant summit
Gaze up from the greenest field

Powerful – Annapurna Sunrise

Annapurna laundry girl

She’s more powerful
Than I’ll ever be
Steely-eyed, determined
Striding confidently

Land a plane in Lukla
A jeep across Mustang plain
Light a village up with sunshine
Her magic fuse remains

 

 

Morning, Pokhara – Annapurna Sunrise

Morning, Pokhara

Morning, Pokhara

Farmer calls to the cow, gently
Corralled in a stonewalled fence

Mother calls her child from an open door
Time for a freshwater cold bath

Labourers scrape broken bricks over the edge
To collide with roof of corrugated tin

Birds call and puff splendid plumes
Demonstrating their innate biologic worth

Trekking guides ply for determined hikers
With different dreams of dizzy altitudes

Cafeman tempts the passers-by
With steamed milk tea and German pastries

Boatman sits quietly with paddle
Ticketbook ready to ply to the lake

The foreign lady talks more loudly
Convinced she’ll be more understood

Dogs yap at movements all through the night
Vigilance unnecessary in this dewy hour

Roosters ritually announce another day
Repeating proclamations well into afternoon

Trucks honk repeatedly for someone
Anyone… to open the rusty metal gate

The black-haired girl sweeps stairs routinely
Her distinct action – whisking dust before polishing

The Stupa gazes quietly from atop the hill
Tea houses lead the way to certain inner-peace

The hotel open doors pleased for patrons
But remembering the days before…

Annapurna and her cousins hide behind clouds and mist
Only revealing peaks when fully dressed

A lonely man seeks a barber to trim a shaggy face
Possibly reveal a timid smile

Morning, Pokhara

Annapurna Sunrise – Annapurna Sunrise

annapurna sunrise - annapurna, sunrise

Annapurna Sunrise

A sunrise isn’t just a sunrise
Each a unique event
The dawning a new circumstance
Unknown since yesterday

Sun glances off the glaciers
Bells on buffaloes provide the song
Your own personal time lapse
Just remember how to breathe

Jagged peaks like ripsaws
Loom over soft curved paddies
Village with rocky pathways
Laid down in olden days

Ridgeline too high for goats
Who would rather look away
Down valleys filled with grasses
Occasionally find a berry

Unaware of their varied fates
Living only for the now, knowing
Can’t control how long you live
Only your present tense

Each day
Lived in anger and greed?
Or fill each
with vast abundance?

Today is not a photograph
Or another dress rehearsal
For a foretold mystic afterlife
In which you are an exalted master

You are given gifts each day
Of beauty, challenge and hope
Hard times bring lessons
Unrequested by conscious self

The glowing dawn brings new noises
Into your tiny universe
Children resist cold washing
While Grandmas fill steel mugs

Buffalo and yaks are elder siblings
Calm, strong and helpful
Giving milk and fuel each day
To people, without expectation

Maybe you’ll bring them fresh hay
Maybe they’ll find some alone
Unimpressed by your shiny toys and colours
Needs kept more elemental
Warmth, food and rest
Content with two as an option

Each house climbs higher
Up the mountain slope
Precarious and sturdy
On each leans a chimney
Releasing pungent smoke

The humans slip outside
Tasks to do, Gods to please
Receive blessings of beauty
Tomorrow, clouds might roll back in
Savour while you are able

Cold water bath for each tiny kid
Strengthen them for future days
Aiding dreams of others
Serve all but not servant to none

Do not mistake diligence with complacency
Lo the free-flying hawks
Wings may appear the tools
The a clean mind does the flying

Simple kindness the underrated virtue
Honesty brings clear respect
Clockwise round the massif
Chanting all the while

Prayer bells go anti-counter-clockwise
Or is it the opposite?
Spin it wrong, good still comes
When done with the right intentions

annapurna sunrise prayer wheels

Ready at Last

I am ready at last for the unrelenting savagery or call to your actions, seductions, or even rampant affection, genuine for the time at present.

I require not a guarantee, only unequivocal intensity by and for soft strong fingers and supple form

Slay me, command me, instruct me, mark me as yours when your commands drift to my ears, will pretend i allow you to dominate me but in reality, i possess no choice.

I am supple in flesh and mind – long surrendered to your charms.

Your letters sent in secret, your annotations, my replies, bundled in brown manila, i assume secreted to a trusted friend in a Balkan enclave with suspect postal service.

The cancellations – round and particular, glue melts to tempt prying eyes. I do not mind if someone knows our deepest fondest codes. While they can set the letters to words to prose, they cannot comprehend the sweet honey you mix with Turkish coffee cooled only by the same ice cube i run along your sustaining bosom, – providing a life i could never know before.

A Cartographer, I Considered

A cartographer, I considered:

Spectacled, heavy on a rosy face, hidden among stacks, drawing inventions of maps – delineating frontier is between playful apparatchik and fields where the healthy and husky scrambled games I couldn’t be bothered to learn the constructed rules of play.

Name in regions of gravel and grass in derivations of Iowa towns and possibly Balkan enclaves. Tracing roads across trucking routes and Roman ruins built to the width of chariot wheels-cemented as standards for mine entrance bringing a horse to Shores, away from CPS relations to new lives, absent from home still never know I can-beyond memories, Serio-graphed into filtered ideals.

Yet an unsteady hand and overall disconnect, or even indifference, which led to a place to “settle”-build a house dead June from cures logs, and seasoned by time, after hewn, nailed and assembled by saw blade and heavy sludge, forge by a possible cousin could always remain a stranger.

The blade remains anonymous as an un-muttered pithy quote en route to cliché.

Neither did exploding suns, brilliant and fleeting, assembled in patterns, ~ shared by the patient and measured in Newtonian units – still could not muster a journey – hence gazed, but ignored as impractical, nigh impossible.

Translucent ayers, super-imposed and stacked, detailing azimuths, trajectories and elevations – separating fertile valleys (thought subject to floods) from talus slopes too steep but for mountain rams on the shady flank of Timpanogos.

Dotted dashed and surveyed, specific dots explained in legend denoting assigned capitals, provincial outposts and occasionally hamlets determined by polled populations, overseen with constructed superintendents, supported by varying address of retainers.

Intrigued by absence of obvious order though not my task to chart.

Instead, as per instinct, selected committed to memory, devoid of context, thin slices of knowledge swirling in a petri vacuum – accurate as such but irrelevant

So i journeyed to wonder about likely motivations which took Normans, Pharaohs and troubadours beyond the point of unknown return. Capes left in wakes with dates and hard-track to fortify a quest alleged to diagram flora. Among them, I reference guide notes from decades past – a vague as possible to acquire allowing white-space and risk. Packed in burlap next to a survivor’s stove and pouch of seeds and spices and an important black pencil. Only planned to go one way, impartial to return rather to chronicle the unfamiliar.

The familiar left far behind as physics might allow – exchanged possible comfort in normalcy for uncertainty contentment in ambiguity. Meandering concentric routes, devoid of patterns or ready purpose.

Answers are easier in cliché, ergo:

“I’ll know when i get there” –
Town to creek to roadside conundrum – I swirled each in mouth , pretending my palette featured a vocabulary to explain to unseeing why I hadn’t settled for seemingly ideal locales, situations and specific circumstance to flourish.

Eventually, after farm toil, beach frolic, rough nights in dangerous morass, leaping turrets of ruins and painful heaving, missed junctions and forgotten aims, at a campfire in a lake-forest with a khaki-scout familiarity, I stumbled through an unfavorable gale, onto the intended coast

I mocked myself for mis-named non-discoveries, i assumed as fragrant promised lands of plenty allowed to the intrepid erstwhile accidental navigators.

Teased over misread hieroglyphics and misappropriated meaning to stone wheels quarried a far, hauled by double-hulled craft powered by taro and current and fickle breeze.

I could no longer mock with unearned disdain, the vaunted and faulted explorers, stolen secrets leading to some anomaly errantly pro-claimed as new or proper or divine.

Earnestly deterred, i occurred to was to map a universe of flesh and thought. Breath and sounds assembled into meaning.

The crease on cheek, the measure of brow, the angle of toes, magnitude of halo surrounding chameleon eyes and the mysterious enthusiasm of all which exists between.

Thwarted, not ny scenery but by shaking confessions, fumbled after a stealth crossing at an indifferent frontier town. I’d escaped to my holy land I presumed for an instant before minor catastrophe.

Stalled at an unwelcoming inn where i laid myself bruised and bare to a lover temporarily transformed to a stranger after i let the truth languish, vanquished by the uncertainty of resolved and fear or wounding the occasionally innocent.

She walked out vested, blithely, pithy saying “I know” unwittingly perhaps offering just enough loft to push a tattered sail across a colour-coded sea mis-named as somewhere calm.

The explorer hides. Alone, entirely lost and surrendered to fates incomprehensible to the battered. Uncontrollable b y the hostage. Yet clinging to an adrenaline determination to manufacture strength to another foray.

Monk-like, minus faith, discipline, dogma or skill at ringing bells, relying on rice gruel and fragrant hope, the cartographer gathered charcoal, fired for unsteady hands, and a redrew boundaries to conceive an entirely new Pangea with concessions to speculate, plunder and chart assigned exclusively to only two.

Change the World with Walking Sticks

Of course i wanna change the world, not just ‘my’ world but ‘the’ world. Not force *anyone* to do *anything* but maybe somehow effectuate positive change on a global scale. Not by guns, torture, fascism or force but by walking sticks, paintbrushes, backpacks. Not 2 cars in every driveway but 2 warm lovers in every bed. Model behaviour of what i want to be and see in the surroundings lands.

All naïveté aside… While i do long for squadrons of mercenaries clad in corduroy-patchwork pants armed, with Thoreau and flowers – sleeping bags & kind words, i do realize, “Oh shit! Sounds like M0rm0n missionaries with different books.”  

If i miss you though, do not take any reason for concern from my thoughts. You are scintillating and mighty and I do not question *anything* that you do – i express my sentiments to quell your fears of loneliness and/or longing and confusion during your search for well… what you seek: love, beauty, nobility and thrill.

Selling Arbitrary Citizenships

Selling citizenship to a country which isn’t recognized by leagues or unions, intent thrust into existence, scant generations hence.

Your initiation packets include:

A passport, acknowledged only by arbitrary atolls, expired drilling platforms, and occasional metaphysical realms – with names borrowed from Dead Sea Scrolls

Postage stamps, assorted, bearing fetching motifs in three colour plates

A seal, stamp-able with ink and spring or possibly emboss-able

Currency, printed on vellum, with dew-coloured coastlines which might exist, if randomness permits.

The rest, yours to determine, simply add origin myth, considering prior manifestations

Govern yourself accordingly.

Still Life of Motion: Haibun in Grey

Room close dark
dark, listening
white noise and windchimes

From my perch, survey the still life before me – a didgeridoo leaning against a worm wood bookcase, 4 thick shelves made from free form curly maple looking like slabs of bacon, books stacked horizontally for easy reading of titles on spines; Ulysses, Siddhartha, Tolstoy, Salinger, Dr. Seuss, a stack about Everest, old Edmund Hillary grinning under shaggy beard and leather edged goggles. BhagavadGita, with dead, bald smiling, reincarnated onto the dust leaf resting, leaning next to Don Quixote, heavy in four volumes with hand-cut pages, raised ink, tissue protects the engravings. A collection (complete) of TinTin the intrepid reporter (Belgian I think), his dog Snowy and ornery ole Cap’n Haddock. More adventure than John McPhee, him traipsing from Alaska to Bangladesh – lonely freighter pulling out of dark harbors, a thousand iron feet long tended by six – maybe eight scattered souls. A Russian Matryoshka doll endless stream of smaller beings, a lighter from Belikin – the state brewery of Belize, a metal Sierra Club cup, engraved with highest peak in Nevada and a date so long ago that I look at a photo to remember me, head in clouds, wearing a sweater I forgot I ever wore. Picture is snowy, the tin cup stained with heat, left holding coins from here and there, a yo-yo, and buttons fallen off of trousers.

Room collecting stories
To tell you
Some other time