Burgess Stanley Needle (AZ) is a Tucson, Arizona (USA) poet whose work has appeared in the on-line journals The Hiss Quarterly and Origamicondom. The literary journal Free Verse will soon publish four of his recent poems. He co-edited Prickly Pear/Tucson, a poetry quarterly, and has co-directed the summer program of the Southern Arizona Writing Project. Now retired after
thirty years as a school librarian, Burgess is currently editing a journal he kept as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Thailand from 1967 to 1969. bbneedle@cox.net

BUDDHIST MONK IN MY BUS

Buddhist monk in my bus eyed
            me as exotic stared at my cigarettes
            Salem? he asked.
            Falling Rain I replied local brand
            Crestfallen monk
            You know about Buddhism?
            Not much
            Good Learn everything new
            How many people live in your village I asked
            He spoke a number in Thai
            You understand? he asked
            Fifty thousand I said
            He laughed Raised his eyes Rubbed his smooth head
            No he gasped You must study more
Five robed monks met the bus All carried
            black umbrellas One extra for my monk Walking
            away their umbrellas kissed with soft clicks
Saffron-linked tapestry punctuated
            with ebony parasols their distant parade
Good bye I called out to him Good bye
But he was with people who knew what he knew
That was that


ON THE GREAT WHEEL
Burgess Stanley Needle

Krishna, a leper:
        Darjeeling his home
        has no thumbs
        mourns his lowly caste.
Krishna, a peasant:
         seeks merit in prayer
         solace in hope
         dies in someone else’s field.
Krishna, a soldier:
          guards rice silos
          until the mob attacks
          tearing him and the silos apart.
Krishna, a cowboy:
          longhorns near his home
          fiddlers call out steps
          prefers steak instead of curry.
Krishna, a salesman:
          sips his coffee black
          dreams of peacock tails
          never spices his food.
Krishna, a rancher:
          hires chefs for his meals
          eats ginger one day
          looks up in fear.
Memories come:
          tiger spoors, jasmine
          scents, and lemon grass
          by damp tea leaves.
He has four fingers
          for each half of his bowl.
Krishna, a blind monk:
          sees wheels in wheels
          croons mantras softly
          chews bhang leaves in the shade.
Lepers gather for his touch.


WHERE THE BOY FALLS

New Year's Day in Laos and
          monks knotted a bracelet
          around her wrist for luck

That light pressure made her recall
         the touch of another's hand
         the boy falling away from her
         who could have been colored by Bruegel

Unannounced, in the main ring's center
         his body outlined in sand
         her outstretched fingers cooled
Quickly as a sad lover's resolution

Seeing morning's startled sun she declared
         I remember it all when I do this
         and up she floated to easily balance
On a rope held taut between coconut palms

See she cried to no one at all
My old life was exactly this

Arms as wings she barely swayed
        quivering when a tree released
        fruit to dent wet earth

What's that oh god, I missed the boy
        did you hear the rustling
        of people turning away

That evening she traced scented water
        around her eyes and vowed not to dream
        again of jugglers and the trapeze
Clutching tightly to this place this time
        hoping the boy who had fallen so
        many times would not fall again