He Heard Wings The herons had not appeared for quite some time and he wondered if his presence had finally driven them away. He searched the deep sky above the lake, branches of towering firs, rhododendrons in the shade, and the reeds clustered in marshes and coves. All the places he had ever seen them before. Nothing stirred. A mild panic enclosed him. He needed to see them. To assure himself that he had not broken some vital chain. He began to dream of salamanders and small fish. In the flames of his campfire he heard wings. Eric Walter - from the book "Sounds from the Old Lodge" ©2004
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Dust Off the Two Bronze Bells
Somphoun elects not to climb The 100 steep steps up to Wat Chom Phet Instead lies down to nap on naked wood. As I ascend alone, a mangy dog growls Barks fiercely then turns tail and vanishes Silent into the somnolent Mekong morning. The temple compound is serene Void of humans But a statue appears to breathe The Earth Goddess Nang Thorani Wringing water from her bibulous mane To drown the army of the demon Mara That would stay the Buddha From his meditation. I sweep the verandah with a worn broom Dust off the two bronze bells Enter the sim to sit in contemplation Beneath a lustrous crimson ceiling Carpentered firmament adorned With florid stencils in gold Mice, butterflies, peacocks, and bees Mythical creatures amid delicate feathers. In the corner, a shining gong I will never hear. Late afternoon sun on
The jade sparkling stream I hear your voice in the riffles, soft currents Soothing whispers, tender murmurs And joyful sighs My own voice trembles to answer To sing you a song To speak you a poem Of deep running love and The deep grief I bear, Of devotion never dying Solid like the mountain, like bedrock But with words like the clouds Of yesterday Here then gone Like you, my angel My truest love. Dawn on the river brings
A soft rain, gauzy fog Geese barking on the sandbar Wet madrone, color of tobacco Songbirds muted by mist. I come from strange dreams To you, your picture by my bed Altar of petals, mala, candle Swath of beautiful fabric gifted By a loving friend, to honor Your spirit, your smile the brightest of Anything in this unfamiliar room Here by this river with Its stained-glassy glimmer Grey clouds and oak leaves weeping. Distance
I know the rain is sad I know squirrels are thriving I know birds have their priorities The clouds eat many days I spill hot liquids all the time Forget where I have placed crucial items I eat little and only that which requires Minimal preparation I rarely comb my hair I sleep in fits and starts and What sleep may come is Never restful It takes twice as long as it used to To read a page or poem And half the time to forget it All the people are anxious Pretending so hard they are not There is bright-colored tape that Won’t let children swing Pets are living like kings and queens Trails through sacred woods go untrodden and The ripe streams, the dark trees, cheer brightly |