Detours on the road

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What did you expect,
a reason for being.
Wrapped in an agony
day-after-day.

Or a wind, blown
by reminisce.
Directing the scenes of life.
over and over again?

That which I sought,
was always inside me.
The whole sun and the
entire sky, knowing itself.

What else is there to find?

Distorted Faces

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​The zing of words.
​Someone is letting
​down their hair.
​Without concern
​or care in their eyes.
​Up above, a flock
​of five white geese.
​Point the way forward
​to a new mother tongue.
​Which I must keep for you.
​Until I hear the
​footsteps of death.

You are the opposite of who I am

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The cold of winter,
and still the pruning peacocks,
dance with no
happiness in pleasure.
Masking their failed
symphonies in redundant poses.
But my dreams, come as magpies.
And sometimes, magpies talk.
How profound the sound.
A solitary spring,
through the packing straw.
And a resting place
for my thoughts.
​

Permeated with hope

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Under the lurid February sky,
and the treading of thin trees.
A singing bird is flying away.
No longer waiting
for July kisses to fall.
Or the signals to change
in your absent eyes.
All that is left, are the
crows of deception,
and a souvenir of you.

Flying through like a sparrow

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I watched a documentary
about the Chinese poet,
Yu Xiuhua.
Some looked at her
and pointed.
A brain-damage
village poet, they said.
I saw persistence
in the face of suffering.
The beauty of a flower
and the pain of thorns.
Hell with words is still hell,
even in the countryside.
And her body,
wanting a touch of love.
Yet always in the dark
in a land of light.
But she had her words,
that held the blue sky,
like a sparrow.
And when her head spins
in hell’s fun house.
The words slowly circulate,
and catch the part of her,
the part of me….
That just wants to feel,
that just wants to taste
a butterfly of dreams.
​

East or West, So what?

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It’s an old story,
from previous times.
A heart left at home,
and all the language
still inside you.
Like a willow
shed of its flowers.
Yet, like a crab
I have crawled back.
Helped by someone,
borderless, and who
understands my words.
Now, I no longer need
your days of doom.

Dawn in the city

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Dawn arrives
and no one receives it
like a child on Christmas day.
I walked by the river,
once so much river.
Now, just enough
to moisten the fish scales.
I went to the temple,
and began to speak of poetry.
Without closing my eyes,
everything was present.
I sat comfortably,
with both legs crossed.
And the world
was no longer chasing me.
​