I Wish I Had Time For Poetry and Plays

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)