Image of Fudo Fall

Mitsuo, the Shinto monk mutters:
“Bath is meditation.
We, Nippons, know best
how to wash amidst
nature’s great designs.”

Leaving his rough linens
to blossom on the moss
he enters the fall
that roars in smells of granite.

Organ pipe pines on their ledges
scent his thoughts with wisdom.
Pterosaur wings have petrified
to enclose the cascade.
Folded leaflets over head
send memos to the gods.

Mist settles and shrouds,
inspires to live and die at once.
Mitsuo drips with transcendence.


Woodblock Rain

The rain dries wet in lines of ink,
translucent slim-stemmed slants
puddled into pillows perfumed
with celestial ores
offering rest from the blue-masked sky.

In alleys canopied with dripping foliage
conical hats bow with gratitude,
for where cloud shadow and dusk meet
men find the shelter of mystery
and relief from oblivion.

Hot neon purrs collecting the gloss
off the wet pavement, and
a window floats opens to show
the red varnished lips of a smoker
with the sealed face of a Manga.

It rains with strong feeling
for the bygone gesture and say,
with gentle nostalgia for storms
that drenched and drained off
without coming back.