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Jordan Gee Oct 2020
when you find a dead monk,
set him on fire.
the flames burn the color of the robes.
my color, the robes.
orange and red.
ascending from marina's Dark Zone
i look up and upon
the creatures of the deep -
softening the horror of their countenance.
i see black to blue, orange to red.
the Sun is a lynch pin
the monks are all on fire.
the Sun and Moon are a
vector and they are a
time piece.
when you find a dead monk, brother,
set him on fire.
orange and rust red
Naveen Malhotra Aug 2020
Wanderers in ochre robes
Wander across hills and mountains bare foot
In their quest for truth
Thorns prickling their feet
Heat and frost burning their skin
They are often ridiculed
What makes them so crazy
That they find beauty of life out of sync
May be they have seen life rife with so much strife
That they have nothing to whine
Or may be it is their spiritual might
Which is difficult to attain otherwise
Or may be they tillage the essence of life by pillaging self pride
Or may be they polish the unpolished side of life and make bright the dark inside
Who verily knows
What is right
Let them live their lives
Let us live our lives
Gary Brocks Aug 2018
No buttressed vaulted ceilings here,
or monkish men in robes of cloth,
a space where things are sold and bought
and yet, there is an atmosphere:

A cloistered hush outside of time,
etched in rows of words, wooden,
the self’s restrained demarcation
seeds this scene for the sublime.

“In the beginning was the word”,
nothing before that differentiation,
in the assemblage of imagination,
a whispered restless breath is heard, as

marks on paper command the motion
of eyes and thoughts across a texture
in which silence is a rapture,
the echo of yearning and union.


Copyright © 2003 Gary Brocks
180827F

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