Is
it I that speaks, in need of a Sensei, to teach for kung fu? I
see
bulbous eyes, to reach for tai chi, a village in mind.
We
gather signs, from bodhisattvas, in-love
with images.
Dakini embodies soul,
to trample composure, a woman twice
my
chi. I venture Tibet, to meet Tara, while
listening to
geishas. We read Poe, to
move to Frost, pausing at Brown.
Nights
are yearning fire, an infinite flame,
akin to dharani.
I’m
more illusions, for cost of life, careful at a bridge. We
garner
gold, to treasure glens, geared for gathering gems.
We
perish a shoji screen, peering to never see, to hunger
for
contours. Its life a torch, a flaming fever, featured in
fractions.
I die a voice, a violet veil, cultured in mischief.
We
pose as strangers, ever detached, to
turn compassion. I
feel
it in Three D, seated on an elephant, younger in my years.
It’s
ever a mantra, a season pash, to
tiptoe symbols. She’s
midday
swirls, for afternoon woes, a midnight rain. So more
upaya, to ward off guile, a tactic for
mind; for love is kaya,
ever
for art, an arrow traveling afar. We live it, to forge a
fortress,
to cure a famine.
