The Clear and Simple Way

Speaking of Tigers & WIlliam Blake (in the previous below) I just found out that in the Chinese calendar, this is the year of the Tiger.

I once wrote a poem about tigers when I lived in another land.

I called it Poem 10 then.

There are no tigers in my dreams,

but there are tigers in my poems.

I see them coming,

slinking, sliding, shining,

their massive bodies glowing

like liquid gold flowing

with obsidian.

Their amber eyes hold secrets

I long to know

how it feels to go

along the jungle trails,

paws padding gently

on the earth below,

hot breath pouring,

roaring,

from caverns deep within

fearing nothing

except man.

Last night, Uncle Clyde died,

murdered by the camels

that cluttered up his lungs.

He left me all his money,

with a note that said,

Have fun, honey.

When he found out I was wealthy,

My lover said, Will you marry me?
I said, No.

He said, Why?

I said, Your eyes aren't amber.

He said, You're crazy.

I said, I know.

I went to the travel agent

and bought a one-way ticket

to Africa.

I said to the safari,

Drop me off at the edge of the jungle.

I told them I was meeting someone.

They said, You're crazy.

I said, I know.

They left to look for elephants.

I said, Have fun.

I took off all my clothes

and stalked into the jungle

along the tiger path.

Soon, the tiger came

sniffing, smelling,

when he saw me, he stopped

and crouched low.

I could feel his hot breath.

I whispered, Thank you, Uncle Clyde,

for giving me such a death.

Such grace, such beauty

that tiger had,

I never will forget.

I couldn't even hear

his steps upon the earth.

When he looked at me,

there were ancient fossils

in his amber eyes.

He was as naked as I.