Old Faithful
Published in Poetry Quarterly (2018)
I love to go back to hang around,
wait for the next discharge of "Old Faithful."
A remaining predictable event on earth.
The geyser does not know how to quit.
Boiling water simmers to gather steam,
an inner rhythm dictates all the prep work.
Always ready for the next dutiful eruption.
Show after show, with or without audience.
A regular interval, a rest, an intermission.
The repetitive performance is breathtaking.
Hot spring blessed with standing ovation.
The lore gets verified, the legend continues.
Does old faithful erupt with a mission?
Is it an exhibition of never giving up?
Ever tired of keeping up with the clock?
Never concerned about running out of steam?
Gush, surge, blast the steam heaven bound.
A persistent insistence, a never-ending battle.
Is it too late to stop predicting the end is nigh?
Too soon to despair for the future of humankind?
Old faithful speaks out in multiple encores,
holds on to the eternal principle.
Locust
Published in Leaves-of-Ink (2018)
I breed.
I torment.
There is no end.
We discreate.
We embroil.
There is no truce.
We wipe out all crops.
We eat up everything in our way.
There is no peace.
Famine, starvation, misery,
not my problems.
I have to satisfy my need.
There is nothing above my greed.
I am born to inflame,
to swarm,
to tear things apart,
to aggregate,
to destroy.
My right, I claim.
Others, I frame and blame.
Never apologize,
no remorse, no shame.
Bible recorded,
history paused,
let it be.
I am born to get what I aim.
I am born to inflame.
I Still Remember
Published in Nourish (2018)
(For Edna St. Vincent Millay)
Traveler, do you really have to go?
Can anything stop you from reaching your mark?
Not the warm fireplace, nor the impending snow,
can keep you from departing in the dark?
The nightfall scares you no more, you just
have to go? Your eyes flash with the urge to
take off. It is a long journey. But, this gust,
this cold, must you go? How can you get through?
And the day goes by, the pilgrim on the go,
says good-bye to the villagers, moves on to
another coast, another tide, high and low.
The darkness calls, through the morning dew.
In the twilight glow, the travelers roam,
burn, rave and dance until she finds home.
But, if you just want to fill your canteen, come
to my lake. I have plenty of water for you.
And in the cellar, cases and cases of rum
for any party of old buddies and new.
Or, you just want to paddle the boat?
Throw your bottle as far as you can.
Up and down the ripples quietly float.
Reverie under the sun, drifting with no plan.
Or maybe you like to swim and dip your head
in the cool water? If the lake is not under frost.
In the far rim of the meadow, just tread
the path, follow the trail, you won’t get lost.
Waiting, waiting, migrant birds return in September.
How you talk, your wit and esprit, I still remember.
The Fifth
Accepted by Leaves-of-Ink (2018)
Beethoven kept pounding,
no one opened the door.
So loud, the world was deafened.
Mahler tried it with trumpet.
The world echoed
the love of adagietto,
slowly.
Shostakovich buried the despair,
stirred the agony
underneath
the agreeable melodies.
From his soul, Prokofiev craved
a pure and genuine spirit
to free humankind.
Victory was not a dream,
he wished.
The door finally opened?
Note: Beethoven composed his fifth symphony between 1804-1808; Mahler’s fifth, 1901-1902; Shostakovich’s fifth, 1937; Prokofiev’s fifth symphony, 1944.
I Can See It in My Daughters’ Eyes
Published in California Quarterly/California State Poetry Society (2020)
“I can see it in my daughters’ eyes,
when I talk to them about this every night.
I can see the fear....they’re taking it all in.”*
This will transform how we think and what we are.
It’ll form a new generation through this blight.
I can see it in my daughters’ eyes.
No one is alone, regardless the color of skin.
No one's been here before; we’re all in, in this fight.
I can see the fear...they’re taking it all in.
It’ll change us; how we live, how we buy,
how we work, how we stand up against this fright.
I can see it in my daughters’ eyes.
Loved ones die, supplies are running thin,
it's heartbreaking to witness this plight.
I can see the fear....they’re taking it all in.
They won’t remember who lost or who won.
They’ll remember who saved lives, turned on the light.
I can see it in my daughters’ eyes.
I can see the fear...they’re taking it all in.
*Governor Andrew Cuomo’s daily briefing on 3/27/2020, reported in the Los Angeles Times by Seema Mehta and Melanie Mason on the same day.
Hummingbird
Published in The Lyric (2020)
I dream at night and reverie is my life,
pretending to work while whirring both wings,
I heed every rumor, the gossip is rife.
Grass is greener over the fence as they sing.
I am humming so fast, making myself dizzy.
Starving all the time, I’m hungry for nectar.
Perching, resting, then buzzing and busy.
With earful of cues, I'm a bustling detector.
It’s a dream to turn my instinct to vision,
if I can avoid the next collision.
The Year’s Gone By, the Thought Never Dies
Published in Time of Singing poetry journal (2021)
I only wish there was a chance to say good-bye.
The year’s gone by, the thought never dies.
I wrote to you, the place I went, the book I read,
the song composed, the people kind and dread.
The ups and downs I trust you witness up there.
In breeze, in gust, I know you are somewhere.
I keep on looking, it drains me of all my might,
I keep on listening, your calling, day and night.
Someday we will meet again, you told me,
the path untangled in the jungle, I will see,
along the ditch and gulch, wherever you are,
nothing stops me from gazing at shining star,
passing the gorge, ravine, the barren moor,
the signs, the smells, just follow the spoor,
snakes rustle the sedges, baby birds try to fly,
hungry hawks extend their wings, take the sky.
Afraid not, retreat not, the vow never fails,
the day will come I’ll catch the ship before it sails.
So long as the sun rises, the light shines at dawn,
so long as the moon hangs high, the dream dreams on.
Today Only One Face
Published in Chronogram magazine (2021)
What happens if all rumors are true.
Don’t ask me where it comes from.
It is in the smell of morning air.
In the silence, conscience speaks out.
Something in the throat.
Line after line, are they in the same boat?
Many voices; howls, murmurs, whispers.
Many colors; white, black, yellow, brown...
Many ages; young, old, very old.
Many faces,
and each person wears many of them.
Today, only the same year-long worn-out face;
Like hat, dust laden, rugged trace of washing,
like shoe, uneven bottom,
cushion depressed, suffocated, air is gone.
Like pant, seams split, thread disappears.
Like glove, fingers poking out of holes.
Like old clothes,
like that everyday jacket, color faded.
Like old zipper, out of half step.
Like hair, decide to bid farewell
and you wish the good-bye hug
will last longer.
Like saggy sock.
Like beaten-down brush of toothbrush.
Like mirror, always numerous spots.
Like that very old car, maybe next year.
Many voices, many colors,
many ages, many faces.
It has been a long journey.
Today, only one face.
Paradise
Published in Chronogram Magazine (2021)
When you were a little painter,
every line, color, came from me;
floating not on any foundation,
time and time again,
you saw me through the clouds.
When you were not a painter,
you forgot me.
You needed something solid
to sit on or stand up.
When you pick up brush again,
you try to paint me,
but cannot find me.
You think
you can reconstruct from your memory;
a river,
trees full of foliage,
abundant fruits,
a bungalow,
couple of hammocks…..
But you cannot remember the color,
or how it floated.
And the Sky Will Be Blue
Published in Ibbetson Street (2021)
Inspired by the song and lyrics of Bailero.
Shepherd, are you having a good time?
The meadow is greener on our side.
If you can’t sing Bailero,
just listen to the chants
of Auvergne.
If you can’t see that far, smell
the scent of wild narcissi,
blue sage,
yellow daisies and
pink cow parsley.
Bring your lambs to graze on our side.
Creek is shallow, not rapid.
Do not let the water divide us.
I will come down to help you.
Let’s bring over the lambs
one by one,
stand in the middle of the water,
jump, jump,
do not let the water divide us.
Come and visit us, shepherd.
A long way from
Auvergne to California.
Not now, not
under the orange sky.
Comes, next spring, shepherd
comes.
Bring your lambs to see
the blooming California poppy,
the infinite orange meadow
blankets the whole valley.
And the sky will be blue.
Answer
Published in Loch Raven Review (2021)
Crickets are somewhere and their nests too.
Juncos, goldfinches, wrens,
go on with their journeys.
Today, only the majestic pine, oak and beech,
deep into it, looking up, they cover the sky.
I do not know if this is their intention.
They still have to listen to God, don’t they?
The way they devote and build their way up;
branches, sprigs, boughs, leaves,
layers on top of layers;
still let birch stick in between,
still let light seeping through
as they exhale and inhale;
breathing, meditating, listening,
and praying by the book.
A Man on the Tightrope
Published in Poetry Quarterly (2021)
On first sight,
I loved the painting.
A man on the tightrope with a balancing pole.
He was up there not to perform,
he seems was forced shakily standing there,
an albatross to learn how to balance his life.
I got the painting,
hung it in my family room.
I looked at him in the morning
and came home at night.
It reminded me, one misstep, life ruined.
I moved the painting to my office.
I liked to think he inspired me not to be
afraid of walking on the tightrope.
Years, decades,
after stumbling and out of balance many times,
I began to wonder,
how did he learn his trade.
That was the time he began to speak to me,
how he chose the pole,
the length, the weight,
and the cable;
how his hands, fingers gripped the pole;
drifted, swayed in the wind;
how his toes nailed the wire;
where his eyes were staring at;
his ears, listening to;
how his mind paused and pulsed,
left, right, up and down.
He told me,
he was not trained as a tightrope walker,
but he took it to learn how to face fears,
defy danger,
adapt to the obstacles,
and how to balance the body and mind.....
his voice spoke volumes when I was broke,
knocked down on the floor.
This morning, I went into the office,
the painting was down on the ground,
the wire hanging the painting broke,
the man, on the floor.
I left him there.
Glass shattered;
his voice shattered;
doom finally came?
Did he learn how to fall?
I did not hear his voice.
He still holds onto his pole.
I Don’t Know Why
Published in California Quarterly/California State Poetry Society (2021)
I don’t know why it came in search of me.
I don’t know when or how it came.
It came in the light or dark, I couldn’t see.
Dust in the wind, breezes rustle in the tree.
A speck in the universe, it has no name.
I don’t know why it came in search of me.
It sails in a canoe on the wild sea,
in and out of waves with no aim.
It came in the light or dark, I couldn’t see.
I know it is there, still coming, it seems.
Nothing to hook on, nothing to claim.
I don’t know why it came in search of me.
A small bird, a nest, it’s real, not a dream.
It’s neither words nor voices, it is calm.
It came in the light or dark, I couldn’t see.
It is not a summons, it carries no theme.
It was cold, I can feel it now, it is warm.
I don’t know why it came in search of me.
It came in the light or dark, I couldn’t see.
Moonlight
Published in California Quarterly/California State Poetry Society (2021)
You always foresee,
the way to a tranquil life;
amble the sidewalks,
let the world pass by,
leave the war to the Olympians.
You still expect if you breathe, stare into the sky,
some stars will guide you.
You are right.
The path goes first through Asphodel meadows,
flowers under sun, still.
I try to answer your murmuring every night,
if you gaze harder,
angels may turn into stars.
Epilogue
Published in Time of Singing poetry journal (2021)
Acapella or a violin’s vibrato,
duet, trio, in parody or rhapsody,
he breathes fast to level the staccato,
smooth as a harmonious melody,
a poem jibing the syntax and prosody,
a sail boat fading in the sunset,
an elder fisherman mending his net.
Near sunset, he buries both feet in the dry sand,
the grains trickle between every bare toe.
Jogging alone with sandals in his hand,
in the morning, up before the rooster’s crow,
along the shore, deep breath, lets it all go.
While early birds chase after the receding tide,
ripples efface stipples before the sand is dried.
Temptations
Published in The Lyric (2022)
The fat, round sunfish did not answer,
swam away when caught and released.
Baby bass opened his wide mouth,
hanging still while being unhooked,
I know he was listening.
The little one hiding in the seaweed,
twisted, jumped and
splashed into the shallow water,
he did not join the party.
Do not be fooled again by the moving worm!
Watch for that hiding hook!
This world is full of bait!
How many times before you learn!
Oh Tides
Published in Ibbetson Street (2022)
There’s time to retreat, time to arise,
time to reveal, time to disguise.
A rare moment of not hitting the wall,
an encountering of the missing soul.
Tides rise, tides fall, you group,
oscillate, ebb along, regroup.
Like a dream of meeting with first lover;
cry, howl, nothing more to uncover,
how to forget the split; oh, what a blow;
now, groan in ecstasy of delight, face aglow.
Oh tides, you line up every source,
always reinforced by celestial force.
An impetus to dash over the barbed wire,
he flings both arms, disregards every ire,
on his knees, holding tight to his own illusion;
holds nothing, stumbles into deeper, dire depression.
Never faces himself, eternally stranded;
alone, forever in the barren wasteland,
out crying with the winds that harbor all the gloom
of sundering the dream from mother’s womb.
Oh tides, you send ripples to deliver your message,
older than the Scripture’s passage.
You’re evoked by circulation of heavens, some said,
a dialogue with the heavens’ throb and tread.
Every coast, every continent you appear.
Footprints effaced, but you never disappear.
Oh tides, you always know where you stand,
you draw a line in the sand.
Feedback from Harris Gardner, Editor of Ibbetson Street:
"Oh Tides," a poem in rhymed couplets, blends the imagery of ocean tides' ebb and flow with the ebb and flow of human emotions and the human condition. There is a certain potent force at work in this poem.
Fantasy
Accepted by Wisconsin Review (2022)
I like to think I live above this world.
A myriad of light bulbs lit at night,
I can see from above.
In the morning, thick fog dense brume
moving in layer by layer,
as though they are covering up something,
I cannot figure it out even watching
every step of what they do.
Rather, I made my peace a long time ago,
and accept it as a wall
that separates the world I live in
from the world below.
It may sound arrogant
or just some haughty moments
of self-indulgence;
above all the dirt and misery.
Never did I realize until you asked:
“What is the world you live in?”
I suppose there are people who live
under the world or in the world.
Maybe they’ve never thought
they could live above the world,
and cost no penny more.
Why would they live any other way?
The Answer
Published in Chronogram magazine (2022)
By now, you think you know what there is to know.
What you don’t know, you never will know.
It is not new that the tides are turning,
or this time is different.
The answer, still the same;
wear your usual yellow shirt like goldenrod,
go through the day, do not try to find out
how sunflowers turn their heads.
All you need,
not thousands of unanswered humming sounds,
hovering overhead.
Just heed the mockingbird’s sermon
and harken the tappings
of the raven.
Intertwine
Published in Time of Singing (2022/2023)
The nose is exaggerated, the brows
elongated with mouth distorted and face
full of wrinkles. The impression plows
to embed a warped mind in the chase.
They overlap and intertwine the real,
the fake and the charade. All feign and tangle
together to beguile the soul, bear and feel
the hurt, compelled to choke and strangle.
The colors are out of proportion, so are
the sizes and shapes. The grief is on fire,
origin of the origin, aim and stare
at the core of the target, fury and ire.
No one notices the twist, they turn a blind eye
to the curious mind that keeps asking why.
Wisdom
Published simultaneously in Chronogram magazine and Glimpse poetry magazine (2023)
For years,
I only see how messily
you clutter the curb
and drain.
Today, I watch how you
bid goodbye to the sprig,
waltz with the gentle breeze,
make a turn,
head high,
shoulders back,
perfect your posture,
rise and fall,
glide to land
and rest.
Passion
Published in California Quarterly/California State Poetry Society (2023)
It is hard to keep quiet,
as it is very close to the end,
and no one knows the ending.
We’ve all been here before,
near the point to make the choice.
It was easy if vines were just planted,
now grapes grow,
taste is splendor, so is the sweetness,
the glory, and the rapture of knowing
all the sweating bears fruit.
How do you cut the vine
while luscious grapes hang and ripen?
Dew continues to praise,
after cold, chilly night,
deserted in the dark;
shines with the coming dawn.
Ignore all the wrangling, volition,
spurn tumult, scorn turbulence,
when time comes,
never shy away to elucidate your soul
with deafening voice,
resplendent dazzling light
to blind the blindness,
silence the silence.
Poetry, a Beauty
Published in Main Street Rag (Spring 2023)
Poetry in the air, in the dirt and bug,
in the butterfly’s alluring dress,
in the little squirming worm and slug,
in the old shoes and all the mess,
in the fabric, under the rug.
One rhyme the more, one word the less.
The praise or blame, sets the stage.
All the treatise, debate and outcry
ordain the conclusion; calm or rage.
Reasoning, thesis; drivel and pry,
confine the thought like a bird in the cage,
poetry liberates the bird into the sky.
Like skylarks fly, or nightingales sing,
blue, gray, dusky clouds above the sea,
dance with storm, bite and sting,
spread the words with prayer and plea,
pollinate the flowers on every wing;
sows the seeds, sets the birds free.
Afflatus
Published simultaneously in California Quarterly/California State Poetry Society
and Ibbetson Street (2023)
Where are you?
I have been looking for you.
I wake up early,
into the stable,
witness Helios sprucing up
Aethon, Eous,
Phlegon, and Pyrois.
Eos informs every dew
the chill is over,
warmth,
shining warmth is coming.
You are not there.
I listen carefully,
if Orpheus is biding behind
Eastern Phoebe,
red-breasted nuthatch…
rare glimpse of their last visit…
Still not there?
Where is the lyre of Erato?
In the “Prendi: l'anel ti dono,”*
Bellini’s La sonnambula?
And you said,
if still not found,
it could be all faded,
like Maria Callas’ whispering,
“Ah! non credea mirarti
Si presto estinto, o fiore.”**
Oh! do not tell me your despair.
Just watch, watch,
Selene drives her moon chariot
across the heavens.
*Take: the ring I give you.
**This final aria “I did not believe you would fade so soon, oh flower.” Is inscribed on Bellini’s tomb in the in Sicily.
A Life
Accepted by Rosebud literary magazine (2023)
This must be it.
You come with a genuine smile,
not too bright to give too much hope,
to heighten, overwhelm the expectation,
and with enough shadow to remind
there’ll always be darkness.
You instantly paint an opening
that paves the way to the closing,
like a subtle prayer
with no beginning or ending,
a moment is a life by itself;
how to piece these broken words
to fit the intermittent blanks,
and how irrelevant
the brilliance is glorifying its splendor.
Yesterday
Published in Wisconsin Review (2023)
“It was like yesterday,” riding bike to school
under the sun, playing with buddy and chum,
hit a home run, kick and score a goal;
a rock fest, a concert, a distant drum.
“It was like yesterday,” read in a book,
saw in a movie; just a tale, it must be.
A description, an image, an outlook.
Now, the story of you, me, he and she.
“It was like yesterday;” agony, cheers.
A way to depict a fading memory,
a surrender to the fleeting years,
flew by like an arrow into history.
“Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendor in the grass, of glory in the flower,”
hold onto the enlightenment through bitter and sour.
Pick up broken pieces; in fear, do not cower.
Look beyond death, find the strength, count the knot
of blessings etched in the heart and soul,
of all the love and truth, forget them not,
cling to the gratitude amid losses and toll.
Oh! What a Luxury Day
Published in Constellations, a Journal of Poetry and Fiction (2023)
A peaceful line you drew;
no jagged spike or sharp angle,
tributary found its river,
the river searching its way to the ocean,
under the unlimited sky.
On the bus, a full load of passengers
going to a masquerade ball;
startling masks, makeup and costumes,
the cover-up is everywhere.
Near the man-made lake,
with the laser shot coming,
we still are dreaming,
no one believes it,
until it explodes.
Belief is a heavy onus.
A Zen and haiku master,
hiding somewhere over his own rainbow.
Three lines at a time, comes with the blue moon,
the voice from a cottage,
in the forest,
out of mountain.
A Buddhist teacher said,
memorizing Diamond Sutra,
only 5,000 plus words.
It is nothing,
but after learning it,
he said,
I would know what nothing really means.
A Bible teacher insisted,
nothing is real except the Bible.
Everyone believes in truth though.
Truth is a mirror,
a long, long time ago,
someone cracked it into pieces
so we could all have a piece.
Today,
I stop piecing them together,
just believe
what I was given is the only truth.
O! What a luxury day.
In the Twilight
Published in Willow Review (2024)
A long time ago,
I took a scuba diving lesson.
Decades after,
I still remember,
in the shallow deep water,
when I released the dry fish food in my palm,
within one minute,
I was surrounded by the small tropical fish:
parrotfish, triggerfish, moorish idol,
stareye, pale nose, achilles tang…
all over me.
So many living things vying for my attention.
For that moment,
I was the center of underwater world.
And when I ran out of fish food,
in one instant,
they all left.
I was back in the depth of darkness.
At the mercy of oxygen tank,
I seem to still remember,
I wished I had touched those fish,
chatted and had a photo with some of them.
And now,
as I experience enough of ups and downs,
dark and bright,
betray, regret…
in the twilight,
I realize, above or under water,
one thing seems to remain the same;
how quickly I could become the focus,
and how swiftly they would all be gone.
Unlocked
Published in Willow Review (2024)
I never doubt what I will do
if I have wings.
Cruise those hills over the mountains,
glide with white and pinkish clouds,
ring a bell, sing a song, write a poem.
A long time ago,
I remember we met,
when I had no place to go,
you granted me a lease.
I’ve lived and stayed since then.
This morning you came,
pleased to see I kept the ground clean.
I asked for a key,
you said there is no need,
and reminded me,
you already gave me a pair of wings.
The Pulse of Twilight
Published in The Lyric (2024)
It all started like a violin’s vibrato,
and we learned to breathe fast to level the staccato.
In the ecstasy and oddity of rhapsody,
there’s a thread to a harmonious melody.
I always thought I heard a voice,
even if there’s very little to rejoice.
A soul never dies, it carries its own pace,
like an old soldier, fades with grace.
Or “A Thousand Winds”* finally subside,
as we take what’s left in our stride,
like a sail boat perishing in the sunset,
or an aged fisherman mending his net.
Now, near twilight, bury both feet in the dry sand,
or jog alone with sandals in my hand.
In the morning, up before the rooster’s crow,
along the shore, deep breath, let it all go.
While early birds chase after the receding tides,
ripples efface stipples before the sand is dried.
*A poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye.
The Last Act
Published in Vistas and Byways (2024)
The curtain is falling and stops,
hanging in midair.
A new Oppenheimer’s hour is
staring at us:
AI weapons.
How to restrict AI from military application?
Whereas enemy rushes,
leverages,
mighty AI in weaponry.
Enemy?
Who?
Where?
2023, detonation of AI.
The countdown is ticking
as curtain resumes its falling.
*As he witnessed the first detonation of a nuclear weapon on July 16, 1945, a piece of Hindu scripture ran through the mind of J. Robert Oppenheimer:
“Now I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds.” It is, perhaps, the most well-known line from the Bhagavad Gita, but also the most misunderstood.
Honeybee’s Secret
Published in Vistas and Byways (2024)
I always think,
my secret will be hidden in the dark,
no one including myself will ever find it again.
Until one day,
I hear your constant buzzing,
fluttering wings carrying load of
messages,
as you drone from flower to flower.
The identical monotonous tone,
hauling mountain of rumors and gossip;
claims, complaints,
requests for marriage arrangements...
pollen after pollen,
piling up on your antennas,
the urgency, the pedantic details
grind all over your head
and belly.
The last-minute reminders to expound
their demands, requirements,
augment your workload.
Never getting tired,
steadfast and persistent,
digesting all the secrets,
humming with no editing, you broadcast the news.
The audience applauds
and extends their red carpet
with more colors of petals, sepals...
the standing ovation finally convinces me,
Shakespeare is right,
everyone loves others’ secrets;
feud, fraud, love, hate,
jealousy, revenge and misery.
Casta Diva, a Prayer for Peace
Published in Ibbetson Street (2024)
I heard you are looking for me.
In the early morning,
so quiet,
you can hear everything;
turkeys, geese,
exhausted lingering exchanges of their longings,
birds have not awakened.
You must hear something in that vast silence.
Yet you are still searching.
Didn’t the rising sun show you the path?
Too bright, too dazzled?
And the heat at high noon,
too hot?
Too much anguish?
You waited for me after sunset.
When Luna rises behind the hill,
pulls the moon with her white chariot,
who is singing Casta Diva?
Maria Callas?
Montserrat Caballe?
Bring back all the longings, anguish,
and the hidden passion, conflict.
I see you light a candle.
Advent? Hanukkah?
Or just for the long, dark night,
so I can find you?
The following poems were published in local
and overseas newspapers prior to 2016.
Scars
(In the world we live in today, there are hundreds of conflicts a day: demonstrations, protests, clashes, collisions, confrontations, battles, combat and wars.)
Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.
Burnt, charred, raging fire, wounded mourn.
Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.
Farmers run for cover, ruined and broke.
The plough mars body and soul, bruised and torn.
Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.
Politicians debate media. Croak, grunt and choke.
Students, parents on the street and the newly born.
Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.
It drives rich men to the wall and cloak,
poor men to the floor, no place no thorn.
Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.
Philosophers calm each soul and every folk.
No place to occupy, nothing to scorn.
Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.
Inching forward, tortoises crawl and poke.
Onward, onward towards the finish morn.
Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.
Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.
Home
When you have time please come home sometime.
Over the mountain in the valley through the gate,
follow the winding road to the top, breeze anytime.
The home is not the old house that springs your fate.
Someday you'll know why we move through each alley
as a raft, moors in mire, mud and slough, a holm
next to the shrub, the hill and the whole valley.
It is where we call home that was never your home.
A resting place midway to the end of cloud.
Waves find its shore, a shelter just a hutch.
Sow and plow, dig and till to make you proud.
Simple, humble there is a plan and no crutch.
Laurels wither and rose petals crumple.
In the wind, graying hair tousle and rumple.
Surgery
A message said you are thinking of me,
and wonder how did my surgery go?
If there is anything you can do, feel free
to contact you. You would really like to know.
With your Parkinson's, you have to keep
footsteps short. Balance is job number one.
You need a ride to go any place, in and schlep
out of the car is easier said than done.
Hear you want to help me in any way
you can, reminds me of the dire
story of a blind and a deaf stump in a fray,
baffle and struggle out of the blazing fire.
I erased the message, it vanished in the air.
That's a long time ago, the voice is still there.
Dawn
(Daybreak over Mt. Diablo, CA)
Clouds gather layer by layer at the crack of dawn.
Hill stratum leads to the mountain-stage.
Frost waits all night, reveals sleepy eyes to yawn.
The puff of brume and nebulae conceals the mage.
Wind, the conductor, orchestrates by the chart.
No gust, no howl, mutes the music quiet and still.
Hear with eyes, voice resonates in the heart.
Lyrics from heaven textured by timbre and thrill.
Libretto forever arousing, never dull.
Sun, robe over gown, unveils its mist.
Florid and showy stage shades with hues and lull.
Above peak, baton never misses the gist.
It starts and ends, history unfolds its endless course.
Stormy day, finest pageant divulges vigor and force.
Never Alone
No matter, I am coming to you.
You may notice nothing,
no voice to wake you up.
I am coming quietly.
Last year, I did not see you.
Where were you?
This year, you finally pay attention.
Every bud, every new leaf,
every color.
I am coming,
changing not your world,
just to show you my new dresses:
soft pink, rosy-red, honey yellow,
golden orange, mustard brown, magenta purple…
Never alone you are, never.
I dress up for you every year.
The Hollow Trunk
Every once in a while
you come to knock;
my pulse, my feelings.
I do not blame you.
Like dead ashes,
there is no color you can discern.
Yet you still think,
there is a soul behind those wrinkles.
For sure,
nothing I can do for you anymore.
But you did not forget me.
For old times’ sake,
when you blew really hard,
I answered with my hollow resonance.
I do not know if you heard it.
It wasn’t that long ago,
fluttering with sunshine, I waved;
every time you came, we swayed and played.
And now,
you can only catch my breath when you howl.
Sun still finds his way
through dense branches, layers of leaves,
insists to reach me and say hello.
Rain still comes
in time to quench my thirst.
Snow soon will dance for me,
I vow to open my eyes
once more,
for old times’ sake.
I Am
Published in Avocet Weekly (2024)
I am a squirrel sprinting for wild blueberries.
I am a butterfly dancing in the sun.
I am a chipmunk foraging for insects and worms.
I am an eagle over the sun-polished rocks.
I am a seagull circling the beach.
I am a starfish in the tide pool.
I am the hermit crab inside a scavenged shell.
I am the lobster hiding beneath the rocks.
I am the tussock sedge in the bog.
I am the lady fern along the brookside.
I am the great horned owl guarding the birch forest.
I am the cliff overlooking the climbers.
I am the budding cardinal flower.
I am the yellow pond lily.
I am the breeze caressing the flower bed.
I am the campfire burning on the terrace.
I am the dusky sky lingering in the twilight.
I am a sailboat fading into the sunset.
I am a traveler coming home again
to hear the bullfrogs rehearsing in the rain.
My Grandson’s First Wrestling Match
Published in CAAR (2024)
You are called and out there alone.
No whine, no complain,
it is all you.
Not like team sport you played before:
T-ball, baseball, soccer, basketball;
always someone in your team screws up,
it’s all their fault;
now it’s all you.
In wrestling,
a moment of lapse,
you will be flipped;
how to attack,
how to defend,
all you.
You are out there all by yourself,
fighting for your breath like a gladiator;
how you react,
how you handle,
all you.
Never too early, Max.
You will need it,
sooner than later in life,
you will be out there “naked,”
just two legs,
two hands.
Is That You, Nephesh?
Published in CAAR (2024)
It seems you know me quite well,
like shadow following me.
Sometimes, I thought I heard a voice,
someone threw a pebble,
bounced couple times on the surface,
then sank soundlessly into the lake.
You never stop knocking,
like woodpecker, keeping at it,
always finding a way to din and sidle through.
Last night,
you came after the second bounce.
I tried to catch you.
You did not reach the shore.