The Bamboo Grove of Misplaced Rhythms

In a forest where time loses its beat,
Bamboo stalks sway to rhythms off-key.
Leaves rustle in syncopated sighs,
As wind conducts an avant-garde reprise.

Zen monks with jazz hands meditate,
On cushions that refuse to stay straight.
Their ohms become bebop, their mantras swing,
In this grove where silence learns to sing.

Crickets chirp in Morse code dreams,
While frogs croak dubstep by the streams.
A woodpecker’s tattoo goes trip-hop,
On bamboo drums that won’t stop.

Fireflies flicker in disco flights,
Their tiny bulbs, strobe-dancing lights.
Moonbeams break-dance on dew-dropped leaves,
As night’s symphony gently heaves.

A wise old panda munches shoots,
His chewing, a baseline that pollutes
The expected quiet of bamboo zen,
With rhythms borrowed from Miles Davis’ den.

Here, koans are spoken in scat,
And enlightenment wears a porkpie hat.
The sound of one hand clapping clear,
Is a rimshot to the mindful ear.

In this grove of beats misaligned,
The path to truth is redesigned.
For in the spaces between the notes,
True harmony paradoxically floats.

So seek the bamboo’s crooked song,
Where right and wrong no more belong.
In rhythms lost and found again,
Lies the heartbeat of eternal zen.