For days I wandered
In the mountains green, white & brown
Drinking from cold water streams
Eating berries & watching slugs
Sharing my tent with people from strange lands
Walking steep trails & lighting camp fires
Waking with sun & gazing at snow mountains
Sadly I walk down from heaven
Back to humanity all alone
Wondering what I found in nature
That I couldn't find in people

As an ice River flower
The locals
Say it was from the gods
And goddesses
Of the Himalayan
Mountain
For each peak
Is the home of either.
So when you see a river
Think where it came from

In lue of a sun
The rises in a triangle
A piece of fruit
Over the simu Himalayas
Harolding
The day
And
The best time
For pictures.

I was there when
We All saw the
UFO float over Mount Everest
All of us where
Shazed and amazed
As we pointed it out
To eachother.
Then.....
It disappears.

"Wet Man"


Wet man walking in the clouds
In the Himalayas dripping nectar
Of the gods upon all equally
Monkeys and monks travel purposefully
To buddhahood
One compassionate moment at a time
Who arrives first?
The answer is nearer when
We see the question as
Irrelevant

the Himalayas rise
there is snow on the peaks
I watch it from my bed
I gaze and gaze at it
in the morning
as a little village girl goes by
sniffling with cold
I too am cold
it is chilly here in Tosh in May
but a young Israeli boy
took off his shirt
and stood on the fencepost of the guesthouse dancing
down was the deep green valley
all of us watched in admiration
the next day I went down to the waterfall
which from here is a beautiful whisper in the air
there are donkeys and a path
and pretty houses on the other side of the valley
and everywhere there are people smoking hash and relaxing
in the cafes and the guesthouses
it is almost like a pilgrimage smokers keep coming
and sit around smoking talking
I pull down my woollen cap my arms and back
feel the chill despite a thick sweater
despite a blanket and a four inch thick quilt
I roll my joints and smoke them alone
sometimes smoke them with others
I look at the hills and the valleys and the wooden houses
I look at the white peaks glowing in the sun
and talk about CCR and stained glass art with Michael from Norfolk
who’s going down the valley to another village for a party tonight
with his young Spanish friend
I talk about Bombay with Puneet and Manya from Kanpur
who’ve come here on a Bullet
Hash Heaven Manya says reading my mind as the joint passes on
to the four engineering interns from Delhi
and all the time I sip on ginger lemon honey
for my sore throat until on the last day it disappears
unlike the young Israeli girl’s pink laptop in a pink cover
found by the part time caretaker in the garden on a pink chair
she left behind last night because it was too dark
come again the guesthouse boys say to me as I pay them
what a scene I think how cool as I begin to leave the village
down the dung-clotted stone steps nodding to the smokers coming in.

My shoe bit my skin
He pulled me up
We walked the snow
Singing; foot on foot.

The home out of sight
He hardly felt his lungs
But we wanted to be home
And read My Brother Jack.

He plucked a cloud
Whispered a wish
Drew a diabolic smile,
"Some other day"