So much plum rain
has come and gone.
A hurricane of
blue magpies,
and wet kisses.

And from looks of love.
A fluttered -loop
of little waves.
She is the form
of my soul.

Two autumns,
shuffle through the leaves.
A step closer to
seasonal sadness.
 
My dreams of Japanese tea,
and evening firelight –
with plums in bloom.
Will you remember?
 
For a moment, we saw
the leaves fall and butterfly flit.
Nothing, but creating
the dream.

Restless in sweet sunlight,
I dreamt of you one night.
Plum rain falling from the sky,
reefs of sand under our feet.
For a moment, my life ceased –
as face turned to face.
A taste of moonflowers,
and love discovering eyes.
The sky breathed in,
and a rapture of love was found.

When autumn leaves fall,
my memories fall.
Burnt and kissed by the sun.
Brighter seems the moon,
one moment – then stars
fall from the sky, another.
A madness of war memories,
return to the mind.
The fading sunset,
with a breeze so sweet.

 
The circuit of exile life,
each footstep too deep.
Amid bubble streams
and bubble tea,
the sea unfurls in poetic waves.
A crested tern drifts out,
the last of its kind.
Yet another plastic straw.
 
On the island,
sea’s sound in the breeze.
Night whispers, hummed
from blue stars – caress my face.
Staring at your absence,
love is so short.
Weariness follows,
then an endless ache.
Twisted over my soul.

The breaking of clouds,
just before autumn.
Wind fallen fruit,
throbbing on thirsty ground.
The taming of furtive desires,
and love in the fire.
An image of you,
resting upon a cloud –
intimately fastened to my soul.
This is my life on the streets,
waiting out the storm.

Silence alone,
sometimes briefly
your burden.
There seems
a madness,
hanging from
the bones.
A distant, unknown
end of story.

A picture by Masao Ebina that I like. A poem I wrote this morning 🙏

Around here,
leaves drift on soft waves.
And love is whispered in
a breathless voice.
The softest lips kissed,
in dreams of winter.

I have been here so long,
forgotten and exposed.
Dreams dry, drawn up
from my frozen well.
 
But what flowers can be.
Crafted by one such as you.
Disguised, by the first frost-
but love seeps through.

A short poem I wrote on the MRT

Winters opening bough,
velvet visions persist.
You offer me cold fries
and coca- cola.
With whimsical show and tell.
Feeling close to you,
I miss you my lover.