The Bamboo Gathering Sutra

I just close my eyes –
And I can see souls
That dwell above white stone

Waiting, with far-off voices
Calling the future
While candle wax burns

Off of my ignorance
A shower of white snow
That powdery wonder

Like sand-grain of infinity
I bathe in its glow
On a balcony looking out

Into nowhere, I feel the deep peace
Of years clocked only on a journey
Between star and star

I just close my eyes –
And I can remember lifetimes
The senile elements of realities

So brief, I watch them as the pretty
Wail of mandolins, the months
When we were young felt longer

I wait for the jasmine-gardened night
For the fragrance of tomorrow
The dawn where voices join

Like mouths that tremble under waterfalls
And dreams that float like Indian perfume.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Bamboo-Forest-Kyoto-170876421

Maybe, Perhaps, O’ Alright

We will use the subtle color “maybe”
we will write magic like before “perhaps”
finally they, who said
‘We will be haunted by the greatest glory’

remembered, the fruits of their labor
under a blinding light of alphabets
the dreamers choose another reality
we will stay drilling our chorus

a neverland of birds, open palms, psalms
the clear water of fresh thoughts
that chime from the future-grafts
space-time collides with the landscape

of the heart, that spells a figurative unity
across our palette, template, painter’s reference
always a wider frame-of-reference
We will throw divine colors into the mix “maybe”

And love all those who cross our paths “perhaps”
it’s all we can do, they said
‘We will live as if, wildly haunted
By the greatest glory and miracles.

Art Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Rocamadour-Watercolor-For-sale-original-413027068

Finally They the Authors of Canvases Let Loose

That’s a poet
not an angel
So few are the stars
Chosen ones, destined
for a life of novelty
I strike at winter’s transparency
Immediately schooled with images
the blue bell of winter
flaming in my heart
the blue flower of perennial gardens
growing back through my mind
I have no wings, just plumes
I write with the left hand
of my soul, that’s a poet’s business
the very thought of falling
back to Earth, harsh reality
So few are the dreams that
evade the glowing necessities
Here I love the words which
Silhouette infinity, are they really bright
or only the destined literature
of universals, like a timeless philosophy
that ages well, floating up for air
The light of the clay’s subtle attraction
to always be reborn
until we fall again to the blue stars
That’s a poet
not an angel
those who paint mirrors of lakes
inside their pretty neurons
who live for beauty
as if a flower plucked at sunset
frozen forever in latitudes of sweetness
with the bliss to convey eternity
cloud and swan scenes by a stream
of ancient Earth, before touched by users.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/A-Swan-318265936