witness

the stones have seen so much rain
vivid green moss grows between their edges
up their carved archway sides
into their open stone eyes
over their wings like a constant wind
dried chlorophyll on the backside
wingtips
how many doorways can you walk through like this
how many days did they spend
carving a rock
a tree
a bone
into a diety god goddess spirit angel
to watch over
to protect
wearing a checkered sarong
and a fresh flower offering
white rice pressed
to the forehead.

we met a man the other day who has spent four years of his life carving a wooden statue that is one and a half times as tall as carson (and he's still got another large wing and garuda tail piece to go).

i have not found the words in a long time.
i forgot my voice,
like this.
the one that can rhyme and convey
the one that i love
the one that i share open
the window one
the sweet poetry
and flow.
now, it is
looking back
it is
looking out
onto terraced green rice fields
deep with one-o-clock in the afternoon rain water
and duck footprints
and dragonflies with bright red bodies
and intricate effective irrigation systems
and tromping through the trail rivers
after a rain storm
it is
frangipani
and red hibiscus placed over the ear
rice plants maturing
mantras to bring on the rain
mantras to keep the rain at bay
mantras to raise us up
mantras for the rice
and prayers
prayers
(everyday)
prayers
it is the same shoes taking me everywhere
it is a little brown freckel on the palm of his hand
waking to the sunrise
wasps flying through our wall windows
red ants
smiles from everyone
genuine
balinese.