(c) AM Nabonne
My small lion
of Chrysanthemum royalty,
and crowned with double coated
identity – remnants of winter
peaks, distant, hill top snow blazes
and grey clouds –
ancestral colours for a distinctly
arrogant carriage – porter of Tibetan
and Chinese mystery in debate
of a depiction of traditional oriental art.
A lion heart beats in the engagement
of mopping hair and black mask gold
falling into pools of deep,
jet ink – borrowed by scholars
and poets who poured their words
into the well and dipped with tall grass nibs
onto dried scorched parchment
scrolls – the fine scripts of old masters.
River’s flow inside history, inside
the purest moons of saucer eyes –
glints of old souls inside of each.
Bright, playful, loyal, loving,
Xi Shi dog, old man, monkey,
child of a teddy bear, court jester
of royal descent, beggar of bits and pieces.
But mostly, blessed with peonies
and their fragrant aroma – lioness
to your flower crown and your