Tibet Collection

  Tibet Is Not In Peru

She calls home to Aba
Sichuan Province, China
to hear the brooding

from monks in the teahouse —
many dead in Tibet, from Lhasa
protests spread

mad Han hegemony awry
with soldiers and
agent provocateurs
uniforms and robes
plainclothes

Odd call
home. She sells
Buddhist statues still,
swears she doesn’t know
the Dalai Lama

I’m confused, heard
she wants to
go to Peru

Odd call home. She
speaks in riddles.

She seems to know Tibet
is not Peru

Not a Westerner
she’s a Tibetan, yet
with biblical aspirations

Speaks of forty days and forty nights
140 dead, and
it seems she seeks
to go to Peru

Odd call home. She

will not peruse the news
from Lhasa,
or even Aba
or Luhuo.
Sichuan food for thought.

She’s singing sweetly
on the phone in English
an old Irish song,
“cockles and mussels
are dead in Peru.”
An odd call is this. Arresting…

Seems she
might be going to
a re-education camp for torture
to learn spelling and about
Szechuan Restaurants in Peru

News of spring colors and flights.
Aba green with
a flood of soldiers.
Whirlybirds hover.

In China
she sells
Buddhist statues still
with cockles and mussels
alive in Peru

No calls,
merry or odd. I
wonder
how is Peru?

Tell me if

a llama died
on the high road
sweet and narrow

greeting Molly of Lhasa
in spirit alive

  Tibet Is Detached

My cherished Lhasa Apso
my culture’s watchdog,
you are dead by Chinese
poison dog food
imported, trade imposed
stirring the air
with political pollutions
javelins

spearing Tibet
to teãr a tear
from fallen monks
shot in cultural genocide

Compassionate ones,
we are the only true
clique for justice

A gamble on diplomacy
is failing
like a kidney
on Chinese heparin

A dialysis is
to bet Tibet
in a card game
with Artists of War
and propaganda
an atheistic clique
with bullets

For the tourists’ amusement
let them people
the autonomous puppet government
with the buffoonery of their claque

But let us be
the only true clique
left alone
for our prayers
and daily walk

Why would the world
be a lap dog

  The Autonomous Evil Of China

While some are wise enough
to search for the next
reincarnation of the Dalai Lama,
I am not, but

I have found Mao
as a fly in a spider web

Must I speak to
Tse Tung, or indulge
the tongue of my hatred
by laughing at he
who teachers mocked,
the angry secularist who
revenged himself by
collecting grievances, in
confusion, hate for relics,
for Religion, for Buddhism,
who is caught
in a spider web?

Han shopkeepers in Lhasa
speak with condescension
of Tibetans they call
unworthy and lazy
ungrateful for smokestacks

Wang Zhongyong
calls us
“white-eyed wolves”

Yuan Qinghai
a Lhasa taxi driver
calls us filthy
not clean
like Han on their high tanks,
we on our horses

The science of the missile,
the rocket, entices
the Han jackals to embrace
the harmony and unity
of delusion

I know nothing of Lhasa
while plainclothes police lurk

I know Tibetans
have died

Maybe I have strayed, but
how would I know —
all my elders are dead, and
in ignorance of my faith I cry
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

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Tibet Is Not In Peru

She calls home to Aba
Sichuan Province, China
to hear the brooding

from monks in the teahouse —
many dead in Tibet, from Lhasa
protests spread

mad Han hegemony awry
with soldiers and
agent provocateurs
uniforms and robes
plainclothes

Odd call
home. She sells
Buddhist statues still,
swears she doesn’t know
the Dalai Lama

I’m confused, heard
she wants to
go to Peru

Odd call home. She
speaks in riddles.

She seems to know Tibet
is not Peru

Not a Westerner
she’s a Tibetan, yet
with biblical aspirations

Speaks of forty days and forty nights
140 dead, and
it seems she seeks
to go to Peru

Odd call home. She

will not peruse the news
from Lhasa,
or even Aba
or Luhuo.
Sichuan food for thought.

She’s singing sweetly
on the phone in English
an old Irish song,
“cockles and mussels
are dead in Peru.”
An odd call is this. Arresting…

Seems she
might be going to
a re-education camp for torture
to learn spelling and about
Szechuan Restaurants in Peru

News of spring colors and flights.
Aba green with
a flood of soldiers.
Whirlybirds hover.

In China
she sells
Buddhist statues still
with cockles and mussels
alive in Peru

No calls,
merry or odd. I
wonder
how is Peru?

Tell me if

a llama died
on the high road
sweet and narrow

greeting Molly of Lhasa
in spirit alive
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

The Fire of the New Bhutan

Glory to Bhutan
last Buddhist Kingdom,
you honor the world by
preserving your heritage

Skillful diplomacy,
politeness to India,
has buffered
the titans of super power

Chinese hordes have
overrun Tibet
not Bhutan

The dragon fires
have not allowed
such cruelty

Celebrating the vote of freedom,
remember to bless and teach
allies and opponents
to love the country
more than ambition,
to serve the people,
save the idealists
from the jackals
who hijack
young democracies
with the orderly slogans
of Stalin and Mao.

Allow every fool to debate.
Laughter will sort it all out.

Honor the King
with a revolution of joy.

Let the winners be humble, let them
consolidate the humility they left
in pieces to campaign, let them

remember a silent love,
a unity of family,
to forgive and rejoice,
begin honorably

Sunrise and rain. Let

even corrupt winners see
the rainbow, embracing the joy
their family will endow,
if they will share
in the magnificence of birth
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Secret Limerick

A depression to drink to a war
pusillanimous Chamberlain awed
but an Anschluss to ‘eight
‘oslovakia bait
the appeasement a launch for the war

She can try, she can lie, she can cry
for a list, for a tryst, kiss good-bye
a seduction of course
for ‘r freedom enforced
but as spies all the beautiful die

For a form unadorned, my forlorn
undertaken by sorrow at dawn
is to lay under death
for a world unimpressed
only she, if for me, would’ve mourned

For a whisper, she has died
a seduction in a
broken rhyme

Release her soul I pray,
but brave one:
I miss you
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

The Autonomous Evil Of China

While some are wise enough
to search for the next
reincarnation of the Dalai Lama,
I am not, but

I have found Mao
as a fly in a spider web

Must I speak to
Tse Tung, or indulge
the tongue of my hatred
by laughing at he
who teachers mocked,
the angry secularist who
revenged himself by
collecting grievances, in
confusion, hate for relics,
for Religion, for Buddhism,
who is caught
in a spider web?

Han shopkeepers in Lhasa
speak with condescension
of Tibetans they call
unworthy and lazy
ungrateful for smokestacks

Wang Zhongyong
calls us
“white-eyed wolves”

Yuan Qinghai
a Lhasa taxi driver
calls us filthy
not clean
like Han on their high tanks,
we on our horses

The science of the missile,
the rocket, entices
the Han jackals to embrace
the harmony and unity
of delusion

I know nothing of Lhasa
while plainclothes police lurk

I know Tibetans
have died

Maybe I have strayed, but
how would I know —
all my elders are dead, and
in ignorance of my faith I cry
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Tibet Is Detached

My cherished Lhasa Apso
my culture’s watchdog,
you are dead by Chinese
poison dog food
imported, trade imposed
stirring the air
with political pollutions
javelins

spearing Tibet
to teãr a tear
from fallen monks
shot in cultural genocide

Compassionate ones,
we are the only true
clique for justice

A gamble on diplomacy
is failing
like a kidney
on Chinese heparin

A dialysis is
to bet Tibet
in a card game
with Artists of War
and propaganda
an atheistic clique
with bullets

For the tourists’ amusement
let them people
the autonomous puppet government
with the buffoonery of their claque

But let us be
the only true clique
left alone
for our prayers
and daily walk

Why would the world
be a lap dog
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert

Throbbing In Crevices

Though there’s little food in Sugar Ditch
the rabbit hoped to hop from me
a foolish-stewing-hopeless creature,
who’d let luck go where
fecal creeks don’t drown
perfumed hope

Broken down in Sugar Ditch
waiting for a scholarship
I was wheeling like
lightning struck me down

The documentary camera came
just before a thunder wash,
saw the open sewer
that’s home to family shame

I pulled out my crying rag
time moaning sack of clothes
and the man heard me sing
while driving lightning roads

Honking horns daring me
to dream away from poverty,
I bent my trumpets to heaven’s ears

But no one told me
evil flies to me
every place I go, and
King Sorrow would reign
over sovereign hopes

I reached the skyscrapers
a tourist of bad timing
had to be the highest
place to see heaven
aside from you

After lightning struck this New York
I was lying under debris,
my quilted sorrow bristling
with cast off bricks

Mortar thoughts around me
being so damn mortal, I
could be thundered away
to the heavenly scene

But a steam pipe was hissing
while lifted stones flew away
like missles whistling
choruses of dusty blues

Jaws of life jacking time
they slid my body out in time
let the building collapse on through

Thought I heard,
old Joplin singin’
more on Earth
will be slapping you
if you
dodge more bullets
from another fool

And when I sang right out
across the clapping crowds,
my best laid blues
went right to you,
New York girl
in a rabbit hat

Oh magical girl,
my new love,
you kissed the breeze
made illusions
fondle my wishes

Now I dream of you deeply:
my salvation laughing everywhere

To whinny, my dream horse gallops, your
giggling jiggling in my cortex,
cerebral fondness hunting for you
in pulsing fibers
embedded in desire
throbbing in crevices
of nerve-cell books,
passions hiding in no man’s nook.

You journey through my mind,
scampering mind dancer,
doing wild animal tangos. I embrace

your beauty in the hunt
to capture your essence;
my dogs sense your scent,
a presence so foxy,
they transcend all knowing
rockin’ and rollin’ in serotonin.

I have traveled into you–
touch me there
where thoughts are real
and lightning tingles fine:
hats off to
everlasting good times

When I awake to you
I am in heaven
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)

Poetry Books By Douglas Gilbert