They say
But “they” have never been
A dog
And in the 16th century
When they first said it
Life as a dog
Was hard
And that’s what they meant
When they said it
And in the 16th century
When they first said it
Life as a dog
Was hard
And that’s what they meant
When they said it
While the bells clang
Insistently
In golden Varanasi
Where the priests
Celebrate Shiva
With a dance of fire
Transitions
Whether, in the end
For the better
Or for the worse
A matter of perception
But in transitions
Themselves, I always find
Some beauty
Large or small
In the day
This hulking grey
With windows dark
And broken glass
At night transforms
Bathed in warmth
A dinosaur preserve
In translucent amber
For in the darkness
Beauty thrives
Captured here by glassy eyes
In the darkness
That’s to come
A world revealed
Which can’t be viewed
It’s heard
And touched
It’s smells ignored
When eyes can see
In a tiny dot
Of twinkling light
A hundred billion stars reside
The moon slides by
Smiling at me
Full and proud
Chest puffed out
A tiny ball of dust and rock