neither the shepherd
nor the sheep
The true leader has no pact, only his or her mind, and is not a. passenger or part of a crowd. He or she is not a cultivator.
Half the world believes the shepherd knows the path, and flock to be his sheep. For thousands of years the shepherd they follow was not there, but there were other shepherds, each with their own path, or perhaps each building their own extensions to the path.
For some, time spent reflecting under the shade of a tree is worth more than being coralled. They have no need to corall others, either. They spurn the busy path, and yet, they seem to know the way.
in this spinning world
a web of intrigue to capture you
there's always a spider
these waves, at once giving
then later, killing again
Many a mariner spends his life reaching out to shores, and yet even in the most exotic of destinations the thrill of swaying palm trees is quickly a motion too soothing for the soul of the man who spends much of his time glancing at the horizon, and for whom a hurricane or monsoon is most naturally experienced at sea, where battle with the elements is not a second-hand affair.
songs of sustenance
are not said around tables in prayer
but meditated upon
out where trees shelter
and brooks wet lips
veiled whispers come to me
from a past I can feel but not touch
how to answer to a calling
that is but an echo
slipped from my hand
I never did take a yak over the Hindu Kush, along the Khyber Pass. I never did a few of the other things I planned to do when only adventure filled my heart.
I don't suppose I would have got far, anyway, in the streets of Kabul, with a yak.
in eyes is burden
in the yak's the weight of baggage
in mine memories
do the trees
resist the wind
or just assert
"Just the two of us, just the two of us, we'll carry on....." singing to myself, an old Supertramp song from the young days.
She tells me secrets, stories, with her hips, her fingers and her hair. Her aroma follows her and her moves follow the notes that float.
if I only knew
to play the oud
we'd have seen
the beautiful world
you and I
Perhaps this time I'll look up. Who knows. The last car that came for me was some time back. A long time ago in plain English. Actually it was a van, and it had a siren, and if there is no siren its not gonna be for me, and I am definitely not the curious type.
no dead leaves
to keep me warm this spring
your freshness makes me smile
The good news is that along with no siren, there is no gunshot either, as these days, with looking after my back, I am somewhat susceptible.
the best legacy
taste of indian warrior for breakfast
-reminder of better ways
Native to areas of Oregon and California, and a testament to the culture that did things the right way with nature, before the arrivals of the new kind of folk with their desire to dominate.
and yet no tinkling
in the breeze
this fragile beauty
holding such power over
I, like the bees
can hear the bluebells calling
alas they call not for me
The rain drips on silent umbrellas. Or rather continues to drip, as it was dripping before I wrote these words.
I don't need shelter. Perhaps people seek comfort too much. When did standing out in pouring rain become bad for one, I wonder, and write that I wonder, though in fact I don't really.
In the hills of East Africa some carried umbrellas against the sun, and the blue of corydalis flower lay scattered over the mountains. Not raindrops but trying.
the flowers grow
only the breeze comes in
as the world spins
outside the bar window
She waits. Dusk painted in stripes across the sky. A banner, motionless, like the past, just an image, freely available through time's looking glass but no longer valid.
Sound, stays, in the present though. And the future has only virtues.
And so, another day done. Another banner to be folded and set.
She sighs, and hears her sigh.
I stand, and watch the setting day in all its colours, and feel her silence.
But that is already the past.
all is quiet again