poetry

volcano

volcano

we land creatures
move our eyes
across the earth’s
folds and dimples
taking in texture
thinking we know
where we are

meanwhile
its ponderous girth
squats sumo-style;
a loincloth of
white cloud severs
the cone from
our lived world

it’s only when
we remember and
look up beyond
where we expected
that we see

poetry

moving on

moving on

old grey pixelated photos
line up against today’s backdrop
same person? same place?

smoking grey coconut hulls
shower us with magic, danger
either way, too close

red lines barely tie these islands together
and dollar signs drift in and out of focus:
how to get to point B when point A resists?

all I want to do is sleep now to the echo of gamelan
but we must keep moving on

poetry

Bali Bearings

Bali Bearings

incense and flowers spilling into the street
furious gamelan pounding
with the same strokes as
the threshing of rice
shocking turquoise of kingfisher
matched with the identical blue rice-field banner
waterfalls along the sidewalk
frangipani scent everywhere
orange stone and
black-and-white checked guardians
the shadow puppet villian’s bwa-ha-ha
and the Baris dancer’s and Barong’s rolling eyes
a stark contrast to the friendly Balinese

Bali finds every way to outdo itself
(even now, despite the travelers who complain
it’s overdone)
& saturates your every sense

poetry

Trimurti

Trimurti

at Prambanan
my Irish Catholic shamrock days resurface:
three-in-one
Creator Preserver (and most prominently) Destroyer

I look at Shiva blankly
feel nothing

Vishnu at least smiles back

but Brahma is my favorite
looking out in 4 directions
making the world
one tremor-struck
cracked
easily-eroded
block at a time

poetry

Borobudur night sounds

Borobudur night sounds

Progo River hurrying through the shallows
chuckling tokay booming his love song
waking everyone who hasn’t already filtered him out
crickets pulsing
airplane’s vacuum gush
shaka shaka shaka cicada beat
thin voices down the bank
the odd rooster going off early
rumble of traffic somewhere
casual scratching of an old mosquito bite

the river swirls them all together
transforms the angular noises
into a smooth wash of night sound
closes the day