Crow music
Dim sum next to glorious flowers talking
Who will buy me?
My bouquet rainbows
Red orange white purple green stem
Life carries me home
Climbing 114 steps
Arrange me like so many
Perfect Yangon worlds
Create a dream
Yes
Put me in water
On a soft day
Invisible crows in thick branches
Write laughter's dialogue
Bleed letters, ideograms
Chant sutras ring bells
Nothing but the blues in Malamyine, Myanmar
Greetings,
If you're reading this while flying the friendly skies, Earth is outside and way below. Millions of you are to be congratulated for finally managing to escape the forces of gravity.
You have successfully overcome terminal inertia. You have departed one small place on Earth for another small place on Earth. You deserve a medal.
Step outside your plane for panoramic views of infinity. This may be your last and final chance to be famous.
You hope Earth is there when the machine goes down. If it's not there check the overhead compartment for an instruction manual. Please read the fine print.
Mr. Gripe in seat 23A turned to Ms. Impatient. He talked with his mouth full. "You know, I used to complain about airline food, but this processed chicken is ok." Ms. Impatient, being well lubricated by 90-proof fuel dribbled saliva down the front of her urine stained blouse she'd used as a towel. "Yeah, it ain't half bad. Want my peaches?" They were succulent shock absorbers.
If you're on terra firma, plant a seed, start a community garden, spread manure, water the orchids, smell the roses. Practice a walking meditation.
Nature is your inspirational teacher. Celebrate your daily existence on Earth.
Metta.
Children's lies are signs of great talent.
One of life's little lessons released with the accusatory tone of regret leveled with resignation - a rather quick in-out- breath of salt on her sharp tongue where she asked more questions than she would ever need to answer.
This startling truth of a woman, thin and beautiful left her trailing voice behind her wisdom and intention.
The flower woman's location was filled with roses, roses, all colors, all varieties in the heat. It was a beautiful oasis in the city. He sat down hiding in the garden.
Metta.
Someone else is writing this.
Now it is dark and I am sitting in a small private zone at Coconut. It is a raised platform with large comfortable pillows, a square table with a red and orange cotton runner. The hand carved flower vase holds two white frangipani flowers , hibiscus and bougainvillea.
The platform has a thatched roof and wooden railings on the sides. It is typical of Balinese - Lombok style. Perfect for snoozing, eating, reading. Delightful, clean simple and elegant in its simplicity.
Today's island walk was clean and peaceful. No motor vehicles, no merchants on scooters selling bread while playing a scratchy recording at ear splitting levels. No young "cowboys" hustling their 125 cc passive aggressive tendencies, such as you find on Lombok and Bali.
The day passed sitting, watching dive boats ply aquamarine blue, arching toward Lombok Strait depths. Lombok is across the way, beaches, palms, rising smoke from field burning, foothills and the rising dark blue clouds shading Mt. Rinjani and the volcano. Blue sky.
So it feels good to be sitting here in the garden. This is the University of the Garden. This blooming forth. Fragrance taken deep into lungs. A mask on the wall. Solemn eyes down, drifting. Yes, this bamboo wood-wind chime. Across the sea all blue calm, singing.
White coral bones. A dreamcatcher. Feathers.
Swimming sand castles. Blue heaven light. Reflections and strong current desires dance the water.
Wind whistles through high wavering coconut palms.
Metta.
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