|Art- Tsherin Sherpa|
even as certain death comes face to face with face. uncertain life lives. as if it will never die. as if it will live immortal. planning plentitude. gathering honey. righting wrongs. wronging rights. judging thorns. praising flowers. and forgetting the inevitable stolen time. becoming paralysed when the clock ticks. louder. bolder. calling cuckoo stops cuckooing. uncertain life now panics. fleeting. fragile. and frightening. in all its gory. this manmade story. this peanut. refusing the timeless universe. and all its glory.
waiting for his dead body-
mountain brook gently rushes. gurgling. laughing. yet discreet. through semi tropical trees. winding. joining the roaring river down below. i cant see it. but i hear its urgent roar. the woods are rich. green with delight. and the birds sing. songs of plenty. butterflies dance. without a damn. the wealth is natural. and wild well furred macaques come to feed. but only what they need. up above stands a walled sentry. atop a ridge. reminding people of what still lives. Wache Dzong. drumming its dharmic gong. the skys blue. clouds translucent. everything sounds right. and looks true.
home on a saturday night-
as the city slumbers. indoor sleep's elusive. so stays awake. outdoors. floating mist hazes. in twilight tinge. drifting wisdom. drizzling down. hidden mountains silhouette. in foggy light. illumined shadow. and behind the overcast clouds. a full moon. hiding. teasing. dripping luminous hues. where it beams through. the buddha's moonbeams. of wisdom. blessings. in night nectar. on daytime's hapless tidings. and many factors.
Thimphu's gray monsoon skies' in transit. as full moon Buddha streaks in and out of worldly views. that fogs and clears. the capital's folks wander this Saturday night's streets. all in search of dharmas. personal and transcendent. on this liberating night. of illustrious Siddhartha's pursuit. of enlightenment. tonight celebrated. as Gautama's unsurpassed Nirvana. and having awakened completely. as Buddha. and his Maha Parinirvana. bequeath to us wanderers. this most compassionate gift. now yours for the unearthing. still ignored. still. unclaimed. now wont you dig out this gem?
whisky in my liver. escapism in my head.
smoke on my breath. change in my tongue.
with habit in my mind. and pain in my heart.
i've finally become. the complete bum.
the mirror in the bog-
its a faceoff. the faces i see are ownerless. they appear. and disappear. in bodies. as personalities. that wear off. and revive. in new avatars. as facial maps. telling me where to go. as facial organisms. responsive to stimuli. reflecting. mirroring back my projections. free of any solid self. any real owner. in their faces. and i mirror back the same. we are faces interpreting our selves. with faceless faces. yet having a faceoff. with expressions. in essence. with our real faces. the one yet unknown. the one yet unborn. that original faceless face.
i don't know about the worm. but the early bird sings the most melodious song. wakes up the other birds in the woods. who back up the first song. with their own tunes. from tree to tree. spontaneously. breaking up the night. welcoming the dawn. lighting up those mountains. revealing the fresh mist. the wet fog. and this mercurial bhutanese town. taking away last night's hangover. and this morning's habitual frown. and the birds haven't stopped. singing their songs. they'll chirp till dusk. take a break. and start again with that early bird. the first crooner. before dawn. i hope she wakes me up. again. singing her delirious song.
sitting whilst driving on a midnight binge-
fingers may have nothing to do with toes but the feet walks on. and any sense of legwork is pounced upon. gloriously. yet ignorantly. this has nothing whatsoever to do with fairness. but yet. the wronged feeling of injustice will cry on. tearfully. salt fully. pitifully. most uselessly. handily. even as the feet and the legs just walks on. blissfully.
at a full house MojoPark, Thimphu-
alone. even in a crowd. haunted by loneliness. forgetting loneliness when you're with me. and when you're not. returning the loneliness. even more lonely. ever so lonesome. this loneliness. alone. has nothing to do. with company.
from the porch at kat's-
bare and bereft of any fruit, without a single branch, the leaves long fallen, with faded green memories of dark neglect, the trunk hollows ash and gray, on a ghostly rotting root, sticking out of a parched ground, begging the earth, crying at the sun, finally seeing itself, this dead tree, bare and bereft, comes alive