Silver rain on the backstreets of Harajuku.
Every corner a vibrant cocoon of Tokyo,
packing tidy storefronts with strange brands:
Bathing Ape, w)taps, Onitsuka Tiger

We are wet and smiling, mirroring the faces
around us, the young Anime eyes perched above
surgical masks, flashing like the streetlights above

You notice: their voices and bodies so intimate,
(girls arm in arm, sharing secrets, joined, happy)
yet coiled as they engage Shibuya crossing, skipping
caffeinated in and out of colorful doors with bright
faces like old prostitutes – beckoning, imploring

And then: an upstairs cafe, wooden window seat,
watching the time-lapse world below, bodies
flitting to and fro, over and across, in and out.
Pachinko balls ping-ponging the human maze

Now: Chiyoda train station, its fractional energy
ricocheting through polished steel turnstiles
firing human arrows of space and time, disorienting
to Western minds (so linear, large, simple, unaware)

A Shinkansen green ticket brings a suddenly quiet
car, ordered, safe, our hearts slow, our senses
reestablish equilibrium, orient – we are leaving
Tokyo and its frenzied mashup of Old and New

But first:? Shinagawa, Hamamatsu, Nagoya, tangled
power-lines, sagging grey buildings and benches,
platforms full of young faces, searching, asking,
donning bright colors, splattered paint across the
decaying canvas of old Japanese men and women,
(sentient shadows of yesteryear, a time no longer)

Each stop bleeds into a rolling countryside,
checkerboard fields sprouting perfect lines of
green tusks, nothing but block after block of ancient
fields, forever tilled and tended, forever giving

And a powerful feeling of spinning backwards hits
us, presenting narrow streets, lines of cherry trees,
a noticeably slower pace, an appreciating pace –
like a leisurely stroll through a beautiful museum –

And color: Red street lamps, small shops with neatly
packaged sweets, fans, dolls, beside ancient monuments
rickshaws with young couples in traditional dress, no
western brands here, no Levis, no Gap, no Starbucks

Just Kyoto and its not-so-sad cemetery, a nod
to the past, a respect for the dead, and alive, a
respect for the Spirit that is vibrant in the gardens of
rock and stone placed perfectly on a gravel lawn

Just Kyoto, a clear break from a converging world,
Beijing really no different than New York or London,
with Kyomai dancers, Bunraku puppets, Koto Zither
holding yesterday with today, past with present,

backwards with forwards, nature with mystery, Kami.

– by MJB