Down the path
hewn from gemstones
and lovely dust;
a temple to the soul
where we spoke
in low, certain tones
then sang out loud–
chanting in the cave of Gods
amidst black bamboo
and the panoply
of chosen boulders;
shapes and forms
of resilience and Truth
we might later know
And Closer To It…
But then, I knew
I had forgotten how
to Love–maybe
a place like this
with its beasts
and smiling men, dirt
and gentle stars–breath
in silence and Clarity
could show me, and others, too–
the Death of Ego
and the Power
of letting go….

Breaking free
from the world of want
to the fluctuating light
like a key
along the edge
of the red parasol
or dappled patterns
on an awning over
a stone Buddha shop;
Palms at mid day
celebrate everything
and nothing with cheerful green
and yellow stripes
of light–and there is laughter
over the tiled garden wall
of another kind;
hoarse roosters and scruffy dogs
living side by side…
Breaking free
from the world of want
and doubt–another sip
of bitter coffee
but I have also
kindly requested another pot
of smokey breakfast tea
and a pineapple smoothie
to go along.

I sat beside
the Padma pool
and wondered
about this life;
the blue waters
the bluer sea–
and unimpeded sky
there was sunlight
on every branch, leaf
and surface
but no particular sun
in sight–a world
surrounding the one
I looked from
as in a bubble
this thinly veiled
skin of self
and earth & breath…
A dark eyed girl
approaches
brandishing her mop
making diligent twirls
with the cleansing brush
And then she smiles
without a word
in a language
I once understood.

Open the window
and give the light away–
free it, pull back
the curtains
for the day…
like those bits
of peeled plastic
that lie, swept aside
in the enigma
of their arrangement
on the finely crafted
teak wood table…
Read them, like the tea leaves
if you are able
beside one yellow
and one orange card
a passerby gave you–
the path inlaid
with coconut shells
and husks that are
baked to hardness
in the sun–and used
judiciously as pavement–
a way, unchanged to reach
some Holy Grail–or a place
with similarly somber statues
and gardens of shadow
by any other name.

I was an intellectual once
bent on understanding
explaining and interpreting
the moments
in simple, clear passages
and statements
then life grew complicated–
confusing; sense
was shattered to pieces
never again to be
collected up
and I sat for hours
days and years
writing but mere fragments
like this one–
incomplete observations
that chase meaning
like a man
after his shadow
or the moon
in pursuit
of the sun.

Welcomed
in tidy corridors
of marble and granite
with nothing to declare
amidst the studied smiles
and sideways stares;
transported
from LA spring
to Chinese travertine
in an airborne
half a day;
Taipei rain
Saturday–
light off glass
on another side of the world
news from nowhere
the language of transition–
while outside, only
a memory of sun; all
these machines
that carry humanity
to and from–
and endless
Taipei rain.

The years pile up
like receipts
for things you bought
but cannot remember–
a pocketful of papers
with figures, emptied
on a table, then trying
to make sense
of the suffocating onslaught
of information–
this paper proof, giving you license
to read a purchased book
or to return it;
pass the turnstile
or go home to the comfort
of a new couch–
with time, the receipts
will collect under
that place of respite and repose
along with coins and dust;
forgotten, crumpled up notes
and that is all in keeping
with what is left;
your deposit of years
in the bank of your life.

A hash mark
out the oval
plane window
that looks like
a bright heel
then the moon–
followed, it seems
by one determined star…
But I am wrong
it’s a beacon
on the jet wing
that reminds me
all stars are not the same;
illumination differs
with hope, angle
and need–
a movie that’s showing
about a sword-wielding hero
ends in victory
celebration and laughter
But I am alone
in new turbulence
set belt cinched
as an announcement in Chinese
comes over the intercom…
I am certain it is not
to clarify that baffling light
out the window, that again
resembles a star.

I can’t sleep here
there are smudges
on the windows
like reminders–
not of you
and all we touched
in so brief a time
but of distant cities;
the kind you imagine
in dreams–
glittering, perfect
without conflict
But it is only
in dreams; ideals
held since youth
and ones that visit
every once in a while
like smudges
on windows.

Flying to Bali
from Taipei at 39,000 feet
passing over
some unbelievably remote landscapes–
mountains after mountains
with no roads…small villages
seemingly inaccessible
on the lost coasts
endless empty beaches
thousands of islands
with green and turquoise
rings around them
and wild, verdant valleys–
almost no sign
of humans down below
for hours–and hardly
even one boat
on the vast blue seas;
I ask the stewardess
what country we are flying over
and she returns with a map
folded back from the captain
saying “The Southern Philippines”
I remark to her, in amazement
standing next to me–”There is almost
nothing and no one down there!”
And she says
“Too far up to see…”
But this is not true–
we fly for hours
and I look down
on the occasional, remote town
but mostly, empty land
and coast, desert, forest
and abandoned islands
by the hundreds and thousands;
innumerable, remote coves
and for moments, I wish
I could spend my life
exploring places
I know I
I will never go.