I can love,
with passion and blue.
And weep,
with eyes
to take in beauty.
As spring passes
in deep slumber,
I turn again to find love.
Yet no sign of it
in the cicada’s cry.

 
I tried not to see
how broken the earth
and white the trees.
And all the unrisen dawns
that dazzle in my eyes.
But I have bowed forward
too many times,
each to a missing soul
and faces of rock.
All with ten thousand
longings, without me.
In this world,
I have elsewhere.
To bear me away
and unbear me to you.
So, here I am
in my summer years,
still shaking loose
from this halo of solitude.
I will survive
the things of us.
The cuts, the kisses
and the temple bells
pining the empty space.
And whatever my love
cry was, it will become
a long and reasonable day.
A cry to life: Salud!

A travelling poet
gulping spring sunshine.
A chance to dodge
the withered grass,
washed white from
songs of the old days.
Now, only firefly viewing
and harsh sounds
of sunflower silence.
I wait…..
for summer to come.

You don’t have
to say a thing.
I know what
you are thinking.
Beyond the
mountain path,
a sun rising
through jasmine scent.
The soul of the yuhina’s,
and earth itself.
I need to keep walking,
hauled away by
the flowers and
my singing heart.

 
The names of my dead
sink into a summer stillness.
Water shadows on
the bark of a fallen tree.
Shift through the
roots of our love.
A lifetime wrinkled
with pain – and always
a quite humming.

 
A spirit enfeebled,
and the sun
controlled by flywheels.
Another standstill afternoon.
 
And after the storm,
a blue glow – tied by a poets
hand and taken back
to the sky.
 
Each new bamboo shoot,
booming, booming
under a new summer moon –
and no nostalgia.

The spring wind is keen, all day keeping its lonely heart.
Bright sunlight ripples on my mind.
Not even one fine speck of dust.
 
But I know now of empty words,
as clever as the gadfly.
An endless peak of toiling
and ploughing, there is no release.
 
High and low a thousand shadows.
Each with no dreams, no shame.
And beside the river, a poets road
is slow – musing on lost time.

What a task to ask,
to love and not be loved.
Between neon lights
and the seasons,
I steer a slow sail –
fastened to my soul.
As if I was going to sing,
no birds, mine the only voice.
The sameness of the sun,
a distant memory –
and the softest of mornings
dropped on the world.
Even before the sun itself,
I am touched everywhere.
Around me a fresh mind
and a blue night,
flicking the fireflies
for a wild and precious life.
Whatever else is there?

 
Dark clouds approaching
and only nodding to myself.
I see no shame
to putting my name,
to each learning –
nameless and formless.
An ancient road,
beyond sound and form.
And nothing useless
sticks in the mind.

 
Spring haze making head,
as muscles waver.
Water fountains weep
for those burnt by the sun.
A tale of smoke,
flowing incessantly,
like rain through the streets.
Going…going…gone!
 
Back into life,
and my heart hardened –
I look to retrieve the world.
From an artist’s hand,
a patter of words and
sweet olives, start to blossom.
The birds soar again,
and the long nights,
are made shorter.
There is nothing else I can do.