I heard the flowers whisper
as sometimes they tend to do,
And I bent my ear to hear them
Perhaps to learn a thing or two
I listened quite intently
Past the sounds of morning dew
But the flowers said,
  “We do not speak
  to the likes of you!”
A buttercup then deigned to add,
  “Come back when you are young,
  and then perhaps we might just talk
  and we can have some fun.”

“But how,” asked I, “can I be younger
then I am right now?”
The buttercup in silence stood
and wouldn't tell me how.

So when you're young,
please realize the possibilities
And maybe then a time will come
for chances such as these
And if by chance you hear a flower
whispering nearby
be sure to stop and take the time
to politely just say “Hi!”

In fleeting moments we discover happiness
Only to have the moments fade
Like white clouds that hang in the sky
Until the winds come and they are gone.
Walking down the street I see
The beauty of flowers blooming in the fall
Chrysanthemums in a yard as I walk by
I stop to see them,
But their fragrance is bitter
Best seen from a distance
Is this the way of life?
Time comes and time goes
We see the spring, the summer
Autumn and winter
and each in their turn
Gives us things from which we build life
But we do not own the seasons
The sun rises high and shines upon the world
And then it sets and the moon takes it's place
and each reveal things to us
But we can not stop them or even make them pause
The years are water - we cannot hold them in our hands
Should we mourn for what we do not have
For things, not lost, for they were never ours?
Or should we simply ride the river
Enjoy the passing scene
Accept what gifts we are given and live our alloted time?

Unseen and yet
the phoenix rises
over head from ashes now grown cold.

Unheard and yet
the crystal fountain rushes
with jade and emeralds,
their essence sounding delicately like
a bell of golden light that rings
with laughing sounds.

Unfelt and yet
the darkness of the night
blows bottomless through the room,
a tangible presence
like the chanting prayers of monks
long since gone from this world.

Unsmelt and yet
the perfume of the flowers
we once thought of
exhale a breath
of yellow dust
that makes us weep.

Untasted and yet
the sleepless moments
we cannot run from
linger like a bitter wine
who's taste will not quite
wash away.

And here for just a second
we almost sense these things
and a shiver passes over us
and we do not know why.

The air hangs heavy with incense smell,
The mist has turned to fog and
the world melts away.

The seasons have drunk up all my tears,
Though others do not see
I am frail – and not what they think.

The Monkey's Moon is rising,
Another year is passing,
And this day is endless -
But I smile when they ask me
Some half heard question.

They believe I am a rock
But I am the petals of a flower.

Like drunken wildfire
splashed about the walls
some crude beast that lumbers
recklessly through the camp
the years leave their mark
and there is little I can do
The one hope that we might have
as age thunders towards us
and the ghosts pile up
like so much cord wood
is that we might not sing the songs of our lives
alone.

There is a silence that muffles sound
  or is that just the wine
I tuned my guitar but
  it still sounds odd to my ear
The strings are hard and cold to my touch
  and I wonder how they can sound so warm when played
Giving myself over to the falling darkness
I sit with only a candle lit,
  a single candle on a cold evening
  too early in spring to be warm
and I let the evening wash over me
like an icy stream in a rocky mountain pass.

I am lost but it does not frighten me
the path is hidden and perhaps forgotten
but I am not sure I want to find it again.
Instead I let my fingers touch the strings and
listen to the tentative notes
as I become empty and quiet
adrift and without fear.

Beneath the waning moon the forest lies
Illuminated oddly in stripes and patches
A brook babbles into darkness and is seen no more.

Above me the branches arch as if to form a thatched roof
and through it shine the stars like a dusting of fairy lights
While beside me a path of flowers leads the way
to places unreal.

I raise my mournful flute to my lips and it sings
of long gone pasts now only half remembered
The somber notes are bitter-sweet
and they carry me away.