Sick wild fish,
dance for life.
Gulping the winter cold.
The only hope,
a rice field
fed by plum rain.
Once green,
and flushed
amongst strangers.

A sick wild fish,
dances for life.
Gulping the winter cold.
The only hope,
a rice field
fed by plum rain.
Once green,
and flushed
amongst strangers.

Here, the birds
and the trees thrive.
Old men still
cast their nets,
with holy doves
in each breath.
Every moment
consonant with
the sun and moon .
Even the dust can settle,
unhindered by
dancing slum lords.
If not for this fine gladness,
a new main drag.
You, and I…..
Are not meaning,
or promise…..
And sooner or later,
a new passion
and caress.

A cold wintry wind,
in a good mood.
‘Let’s go out”
you said.
And see the
writing on the wall.
With the frost
on my pillow.
I saw you as
my survival –
the first great Buddha.
Drinking the
morning green tea,
and dressed in
woven winter hats.
We put our hands together.
An old poet with lover,
walking around.
There is no obstacle.
 

Winter desolation,
that speaks
as if in a dream.
Blue bird,
are you not sad?
But the wandering
moon came home.
And scattered
life around.
I sat alone – still in truth.
A new love,
aglow in me

A poets feet clomping
under bare trees.
Wei river, faint-clutching
for support.
A dead fish,
face sickly white.
Dallying in plastic.
Cry of wild ducks,
scattering to an island.
These are the best
days of my life.

A long winter day.
Finally, I can
speak to the moon.
And become a spirit.
Standing straight,
letting the troubles
slip away.
Somewhere behind me,
an owl hoots.
And the world,
is truly mine.

Of stillness, I know.
Of silence, I know.
Of death, in the night.
I live each day.
A lifetime lapsed
in a moment.

But is there
a resting place?
A bed for me to sleep.
Full of sweet scents
And you, standing at the door.
Blue petals afloat.
An ancient
warriors dream

Do not forget
the plum rain.
And singing to
Norwegian Wood.

The summer air
and woven moon.
Breaking the trend
for illicit love.

Our lips, too hot
for firefly-viewing.
Or a stroll around
the pond.

A dark day in the city.
Spring air and
winter moon, hidden.
I looked for the soul,
of a nightingale.
And the peaches,
of an island paradise.
But the wind cut my flesh.
Torn from a summer of love.
I walked on, doomed by name.