With the Help of Ninjas

There is always a way--
Over a wall
Around a locked door
Always a plan
Where light feet
Noiselessly tred
Scaling, sliding,
Swiveling on tiptoes
Wielding quick swords and
Spinning sharp stars
Into the void of night
There is an army of ninjas in the soul
Waiting to be summoned
Ready for the mission

A spare place without distractions
Up in the mountains
Where the snow monkeys
Bathe in thermal springs
A place to sit
In deep quiet
While the world whirls
In the wheel of change

Life recoils from death
From the first sign of decay
Repelled by the halting breath,
The shuffling gait, the stumbling way,
The tremulous fingers closing a door
The shaking limbs that would spill
The contents of a cup upon the floor
Life turns to life, feeding on the new
Devouring young blood and flesh
Drawn to glinting eyes and smiles
To all that is fresh
And marry with youth as with a wife
Merging over and over with budding life
Till life goes where it is not
And cannot recoil from what it forgot

The bird peeks
Through the bush
Quivering, watchful
In its leafy cocoon

The bird peers
Into your window
As if it is waiting
As if it knows

The light through the window
Of the coffee shop
The light cast on the table and chairs
The same light shining
On the building across the street
The light on the waitress clearing plates
All illuminated by the light
And its shaking energy
From the source of what is

Monkey

That mango rind
In the garbage bin
Visible under the rags
Tempts you as you perch
On the ledge
You decide on impulse
To jump through a window,
Knocking over plates and glasses
In a kitchen
And spilling a jar of flour
All over the floor
Because the figs on the table
Had to be eaten

You dart
Hearing an angry voice
And jump out the window
Missing the swat of a broom

It is a tiresome life
Always leaping and fighting
Driven by hunger
And having to show your buttocks
In submission to the leader
With sad, searching eyes
You turn, scratching and
Raising your tail,
To dive into the garbage for that rind

Flying Snake

The art of flying
Is an art of descent
The snake buoyed by currents
While gliding gently down
Springing from a tree branch
Coiling and uncoiling
Sinuously spiraling
Through the capacious emptiness of space
The art of flying
Is an art of falling, of leaping,
Bold acceptance of the air
Letting go through total release
But not passivity