Umbrellas,
touching the sky –
and each other’s life.
Brown puddle,
with a blue edge –
wet reflections
from the old days.
A street vendor,
with an accent –
shouting at the rain..
And a skyline,
called home.
How far have
I come?

A poem I wrote this afternoon.

It rained again today,
pools between sea waves.
Drop drip umbrellas
and soft centered souls,
gasping for fresh air.
What is being shouted?
Too late now, to repent.

That summer feeling,
the poet – no bed
and dead centre.
An empty place,
the shape of clay –
before you
made something.
Your picture,
still on my wall –
and keeping
the entire name.
An offering
of time and space.

Don’t be sad anymore –
one girl said.
Come and write
at another alter.
Where the mountains
are still dreaming,
and the streets yearn
for sunlight.

I lingered, over sacred myths,
only for a moment.
No face for tears,
no mind for thoughts.
And my rebirth,
transparent and complete.

A poem about transition, that I wrote this afternoon.

The day is clear,
the night is quiet-
and no one was
ever here.

Bitter winds,
open up the mind –
a man’s eternal
yearning.

A taste of the sea,
just sweet – and barely
enough to enjoy
the moment.

Nothing left, now –
but the mind.
A sacrifice to Buddha,
for ever.

In Kaohsiung,
burnt by the sun.
Traces of life
running in the stream.
Each step, cutting open
dark memories.
Smiling, I wait
for another island –
another reincarnation.
The same sadness,
the same long road.

A magpie dips.
and sees all forms.
Red leaves babble,
with exhausted thoughts.
What is this mind –
blending with the wind?
Just winter clouds,
and blossoms in stillness.

Most of the day,
plum rain left
on the streets.
The sun hiding,
too afraid to speak.
A stray cat,
seeking shelter –
alive as you and me.
Walking in sorrow,
I remember the day –
my solitary journey began.

A stripped cold feeling,
most of the day.
Drapeless windows,
wind beaten and silent.
Yet, moments of
sorrow lost.
A Buddha’s heart
is enough.

Six months of the island,
the cry of time is loud.
I love as long as I can,
and write as long
as there is exile.
Each moment, embracing
only the future – bearing
the weight of being.
This is the way,
shoulders moving
with each step.
A vision, into a new world.