Wednesday, November 16, 2016


The Zen poet at his table,
in front of him an open window,
the wabi-sabi, the tamasha,
co-emergent; feeling the
wind from butterfly wings in
Kyoto on his cheek as the
shakuhatchi from his radio
ripples the waves of 

Will he continue in this floating
world, or, fade like the imprint
of a crane in the sky? 
Hara-kiri was never his forte...
but, tsunami, divine wind.
Nature doesn't get pissed off...
it evens things out over time.


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