Adrift in a sea of fog; no sign
of shore nor sounds of waves lapping;
only maddening silence.
I cry out for a god but hear
only my own echo, a desperate voice
of desire flung on the shoals
of a ghost land.
The life I have constructed is crumbling.
The new has yet to unfold;
the whys, hows and wherefores vanish
As kids we called it chicken water, cast
upon blistering asphalt, cutting
through endless miles of low desert scrub;
sunrise, sunset, nothing changed fast
enough for us then.
Now here I write from the comfort
of my chair miles from those desert sands;
yet and still, the road beckons.
Caked earth yields to concrete laid
down everywhere to accommodate
our leave-taking. My dry mouth waters
at the approaching oasis,
as nearer it appears and nearer;
~ bj 2001, bj image Upolu Pt., 2006
The path of action is one I have often taken,
even advocated, so why does it seem
to elude me these days?
The intellect, ever mind-full,
providing endless amusement, observations.
In the end, is this helpful or simply deterrent
to accepting the fullness of existence?
The yin, the yang
and the space in between where,
seeking equilibrium amidst chaos
of life even in the slow lane,
I garden, walk, wakefully witness
all the nuance my senses can hold.
I ask myself, if I had to release one faculty,
a child’s bargain really,
what would it be?
Heavens, I could not relinquish sight
though inner vision sustains me,
nor forego twilight dusting dervish skirts
over seas calm or torrential,
cocked ears discerning petrel from pueo,
tang of salt wafting under nostrils
fusing flavor with fragrance.
Life extends wonders to feast upon,
in the thrall of sensual explosions
telegraphing sumptuous messages
to a mind freed from fruitless occupations.