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Poem

I wish I had time for poetry and plays
My mind allowed 
As I watched the same aged, bespectacled monk
For about the fifteenth time this month
 Patter his bare feet
Upon the pavement
Of the dust filled lane.

 Leaving me again
 To contemplate
  Broken shards of yesterday
In a faraway land that reminds me of
 Secret Pacts made
To myself
 In the time when
Getting too busy was never an option.

These the promises
 Made in Nepalese skies
 below the Lost Horizon
Of the Dalai Lama
Where,
I could not see
 The coming years that would
 Tumble earthwards
Like over ripe plums.
Nor the red Lama
Perched on an Annapurnan cliff
Chanting
Melodic verses
Centuries old 
 Tying a 
Red ribbon round my
 Wrist and soul.

There they lay.
 Meditations that never were,
Given by Siddhartha, Confucius and, even a carpenter, from
Somewhere
Around
The Middle East.
Additionally,
They have even appeared 
In soiled books, 
Ashrams on the Ganges,
Scribbled on bar room napkins and
 Occasionally
 Confessed to
 Unsuspecting passersby.

Where are these ruminations now
As the pages stick 
Like books rarely read
In villages unseen
By streams only heard? 
When all I want 
Is a little respite from the traffic that
 Hums next to the
 Lane that is just beside my
 Patio where that same monk will 
Rise up 
Early, don a saffron 
Robe and greet dawn both eyes 
Smiling. 


Jeff Troyer
2006 (Chiang Mai, Thailand)

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