I said to myself.
‘Life takes longer when you walk’
But you tried to stop me walking.
I said to myself.
‘The pulse of my lover’s breath
arouses me at night’.
But you tried to stop me seeing her.
I said to you.
“I have visions to prepare
and poems to write”.
“Don’t get too close” you said.
Like Oedipus I do not long for crowds.
That swollen beast full of fear.
Only to see the ocean
and feel my lover’s breath
against my skin.
This is a morning for
the spirit and the soul.
Not to exhaust your expectations.
This is the way.

I walked along the streets
and could not find any roots.
A lonely awakening, I thought.
Queued on the highways,
the byways and runways.
We hold hands,
and our souls unclip.
Sharing our sorrows
and small acts of kindness.
We carried smiles, not fear.
Around us all that was left was a
garden for the hungry birds.
Playing at chaos and
stressful responsibility.

​

On this winter’s night
an uneasy sleep.
Outside the night owls crying.
They made their home
in this passing world.
Now to see both
heart and sky no longer
pause for movement.
On nights such as these,
without changing colour.
I lie awake, my passion
blazing for you.
And my hopes and
dreams go wandering.
To those long days of meeting.
With skins hanging
from such sweet lips
and fingers touching.

​

A frenzied rider came.
Wrapped in violence
and what fear is.
Every step somehow
seemed farther away.
And everything was hidden.
Even the structure
of water and soil.
Still, I have shelter
in my private places.
Flesh retreats to
loving bones and
the magic words
of a rainbow
in someone’s sky.
There is no more doing
to be done here.
I think I will simply walk
and walk and walk on.

So this is what it feels like.
To be free from being
the bereaved husband,
the teacher, the poet
or the foreigner.
Draped in the roots
of suffering, day after day.
I thought I would stay a while.
And learn how to conquer
the three knowledges.
If you don’t mind?
If you do.
All that drags me
back is now cut.
And I’ll be on my way.
​

​For once my feet
on solid ground.
​To the poets and
​the Buddhists
​I am bound.
​The ink in my pen
​flows into a wild sky.
​And the dozing river
​bleeds as the
​mountains vents.
Over and over, again.
​

Cracking rain outside today.
Only the fashionable
gangsters dancing.
Thinking the moon still
whispers their desires.
They are no more
than unbought remnants
of an inglorious past.
An acrid legacy of
the dancing queens.
And the dying beasts of our time.
How lucky we are to
expand a love yearning.
As the rain water thunders.
​

With the sunrise in autumn.
The numberless dwellings
seems to have increased.
The sadness does not seem to end.
I think that the year of the
falling snow is already here.
So scanty, thoughts of a
blossom viewing springtime.
Already a thousand years.
Yet, today breaks……
and every moment is still
and untouched shore.
To be tasted and savoured.
Holding me within my soul.
Still this chance to be with you.
Warming my lips with your breath.
And my heart with your touch.
As if it was the first day.

​

Guided by the hazy sun.
And the words of good fortune.
I will not linger on this path.
With thoughts of suffering.
And those who only promise pain.
For I have a different path.
A quick switch and stirring memories.
A woman whose hair
has blown in the wind.
Whose lips smolder
towards heaven.
A winter beauty waiting
for my return.

An iron hammer.
Or what is it?
A last ditch attempt
in an old man’s eye.
To stop the banging
on the door?
And outside,
the blind men shout.
About revitalizing spring,
and life in the heavens.
By this beautiful destiny,
I think I’ll build another
house of stone.
And only invite you,
and the flowers
that bloom wildly.
​