Saturday, August 17, 2013

Bristlecone - a "new" Triparshva


bristlecone pines,
they straddle two dimensions
- mountain wind

opening the stone,
a sapling sprung forth

a red wheelbarrow
leans against the fence,
its tyre deflating

how many tassels has
a cardinal's galero?

la bella luna
shares a doorway
with the mourning dove

planting daisies
how pale my hands!

beneath the wrack and mire,
turtles all the way down

only Poseidon’s trident
was found washed ashore

so auspicious!
her three-faced Buddha
recovered from the storm

in the eyes of a stranger
an old lover's gaze

at first I laugh
and then I cry
watching the city lights

from the executive suite -
tents in Zucotti

pigeons and pinstripes
scatting across
the canvas squares

does it shine, also
on the Sea of Tranquility?

a psychic sign
in the palm reader's window
only half-lit

the station agent
fresh out of tickets to sell

high up above
an Escher-like
grid of powerlines

a radio voice
talks about the blue jay sky

crackle, crackle . . .
the hen's fresh eggs sizzle
away the day

the scent of cilantro
from my old umbrella

inside the volume
of Van Gogh's letters,
one pressed flower

we promise to meet again
for the next meteor display

p.a., willie, sandra, tzetzka, pat, sandra, willie, tzetzka, p.a., pat, tzetzka, pat, barbara, sandra, pat, willie, ashley, pat, barbara, tzetzka, sandra, tzetzka

First published in A Hundred Gourds 2:3