Eastern Intrigue (hippy dilemma) many of you tread this path as did I / excerpt The smell of India coils like a reed calabash; it’s linger, a chalice finger that unclothes thoughts and leavens the heaven with poverty lemon. Old men cloak their shriveled bones to the shrill of the cricket; a dervish nocturnal washes the night. As the moon rakes the monsoon pools for striped tiger and shadow elephant, a distant quail shrieks into the night as a leopard scoops her delight. Goa has two nights in a day and three mornings in every way, a mystery only opened by Krishna’s chanting sway. The lapping tide, once the bearer of incense and silk, lies stagnant with karma- farmer seekers, sitting cross-legged on the beach. The warm sand cooling its stinging breath from the Tibetan tears that flows through temples of the forehead, temples of the Godhead. The mosquito Ganges soaks the sweat of orange clothe, the Krishna moth that lights the fires of ritual nights, a festival of lights, a mantra might of drone and incense delight. So many seekers have swum this river in beads and mantra with hope decanter. So many travelers lost their dream in the Goa morning, in the Kali warning of rites and lights of fasting and casting, no Guru in the lasting. There’s an Eastern diva in hippy fever, there’s a Sanskrit manuscript in the mantra lever. She stirs the wind of Ashbury, the troubadour of the hidden floor, a Timothy Leary weary, fasted and plastered Sgt Pepper leper, living a Shankar raga, the psychedelic saga of a bygone time when music and flowers was an eternal shrine The Beatles took the bait, Lennon was too late but Donovan fell to the fate of the Guru’s estate, a tranquil everlasting in the garden of asking, a lotus debate. America sat cross-legged with the Buddha bootleg while beads and seeds of love painted butterfly color, the pollen of a brother reaching another. Too many souls fly by night with the first tremor of insight looking for Nirvana without knowing its might. Over the hills down by the river and under the mountains where Kali wallows in sheltered disorder, windy chakras rise like a kundalini serpent, like a mystical merchant. There’s an old man at the gate who sits and waits , for 1000 years he smiles for the tide and trails, perhaps not the keeper or the reaper, just a flickering heaven or the Jerusalem seven. So here I sit, a fool on the hill, in meditation still, just the flickering heaven that touches Africa’s hook, just the Eastern intrigue that I partook.
Posted on: Mon, 24 Jun 2013 22:10:56 +0000
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