Everybody diminishes in some way.
It is just a matter of time.
But some try to meet
the horizon’s climb.
Until they are no longer here.
They have a frozen knowing,
that there are still words
and tempers to shed.
Given with a firm gaze and
no sacrifice of the self.
And a sharpness for the
eloquence and beauty –
of life’s carefully drawn designs.
Sometimes, even the fullest
summer day remains empty.
Forgotten, because
of strange curses.
And exhausted traces of the past.
But I can always find you.
In my words.
In the flowing rain.
And in my soul.
A gentle guiding touch.
An intimacy, much more
than a feeling.
Swallowing July.
I am ready to travel.
Temples, lakes
and tropical jungle –
hidden deep.
Wait for me
Drinking coffee looking
at the bright moon.
Will become my companions.
There is no darkness in me.
And the poems,
always the poems.
My constant friends.
A constellation of my voices.
And still I have no desire
to dodge street-viewings.
So, I prepare again
to take a layer
from the surface of life.
So it begins.
People so tired.
They are just not
kind to each other.
Spending most of their
time gazing through
the distant haze.
Like this, it is difficult
to observe the
decencies of life.
Famished of soul and words.
The empty bottles
roll along the floor.
Just part of the game.
And the dazzling morning sky.
Today, I chose to do nothing.
But it did not turn out that way.
I made some coffee.
And read poems by Sylvia Plath.
Not even disturbing her bones.
I bought a camera
to take pictures of the stars.
And my choices of direction.
Outside, the cicadas –
with ear noise and eye noise.
Mumbled a few words of wisdom.
As good as it gets, I thought.
Last year.
A wandering poet.
Who likes the person
he is alone with.
This year.
No change.
Walking the streets
helping out the cicadas.
Singing along.
I wonder if they
know the words?
Half asleep.
The cry of the cicadas.
I think not.
And walk on…..
The breezes of summer.
A moon no longer shining.
A peak different from others.
Life that fails to come.
You in a sensuous dream –
failing to open your soul.
Every single thing changes.
But I am always in this world.
I saw the bird.
Alive as you and me.
And listened to the
cicadas calling out.
A refinement of ancient
times, I thought.
Yesterday, today
and tomorrow.
So fresh, the pattern left.
After moving on
Drizzly July
in Jinshahu.
A cry of wild
magpies,
failntly blue.
There is no end
to this summer wrap.
So, I walk on.
A wondering poet,
my name.
A Wandering Poet 