Spring desolation,
turns to summer hope.
A Taiwan breeze,
makes a fire.
And yet, and yet –
still this butterfly world.
How infinite…..

A marathon of yuhinas still weep.
Down the leafless beach,
something startles – a spider’s life.
Each day, I write and hold firm –
a wind more than a whisper.
Pleading to be remembered,
and begging to be fed.
Back again, to my island retreat –
an uneven edge flying in place.

One by one, I catch the stars.
Double-shot coffee
or jasmine cold brew.
A man praying to Buddha,
across the street.
Sand glazes on Kenting beach.
Plum-rain that sizzles,
with cicadas humming.
Bamboo blinds,
no longer hidden.

An island, deep in meditation.
Supple as a new born child,
aching with
no expectations.
Blue magpies, now calling –
urgently waiting
for next seasons stars.

Summertime on this island.
Between Kinmen and Lyudao,
waves loving the shore.

A blaze of fierce sun,
sweat song of attachment.
Daylilies, scattered on the streets –
cicadas stop to sing.

Finally, dormant daydreams
awake. a future feast paradise.

The heat, sometimes
a darkness too deep.
But always, a hundred
flowers in bloom.
Covering this island,
hanging from a central place.
A humbleness in life and death.
I turn my eyes to
this native land.

In an instant,
a mourning day.
But still dew,
like diamonds.
Soul-torn streets,
and nothing of Facebook.

A few wild flowers,
eyes wide open –
and words left unsaid.
In a moment – life,
fire and death ashes.
Where can I go?

The shell I take,
the earth on her knees.
Swollen shut,
nothing new to say.
Between Dickinson
and Bukowski –
a quite graveyard.
And the only living boy
in Kaohsiung.

Thunderheads
from the mountains,
reaching for
sweet persimmon.
Papaya tasting words,
deep from winter
storage – a song alone.
An island, with
soothing flatness.
Resting, on a lake
of the mind – and
silent sediment.

The sky, on this island
is never too crowded.
Today, tomorrow –
a soul single-horned.

That banquet of desire,
never quite appeared.
More, a slow soaking
from sweet plum rain.

How now, I know this place.
Fireflies now fly,
grass, water and air –
all the same colour.

An eternity, in an afternoon.
With name and language borne aloft.
Each mountain and river,
a standing form.

Solitude, no more.
Each day, reaching
out to life.
Wind, sand, water –
dancing in the air.
A barwing flits by.
Looking back, a
buddha speaks.