Monday, August 29, 2016

A Man of Strange Beliefs


inklings of inertia flowing, 
knowing what lies over the horizon.
the Han does not reverse its courses
over wet clouds of submerged cathedrals;
danger lurks mid-brook changing horses.

a freeloader goes where food is sown, 
like a know-it-all forever knows, 
a forlorn man says "see you again"
while others know not to begin,
i say "hello; i must be going."  

blades of grass wave above the ledge,
grown in three weeks passing,
here i sit alone with the wind,
 bliss forever lasting,
bouncing off obstructions. 

drifting with what smoke disperses,
i lick the chaos from my verses,
recognize snags in yonder canyon,
landmarks of sweet affection,  
against tumbleweed distractions.

the Han cannot cease rolling,
return i here to witness,
lush green mountains rising over,
whistling through arrogant pylons, 
with powerful remission. 

     "I am a man of strange beliefs and ways of thinkin', seein' into the future and feeling things hard to explain. The trail I've been followin' for so many years was twisted and tangled, but it's straightenin' out now."*

*from Riders of the Purple Sage
by Zane Gray
august 29, 2016












Sunday, July 31, 2016

all living things have taken a break

all living things have taken a break,
even cars and cycles do not pass.
ah, there they are; two, four, seven...
even wind raises a tired puff off wild grass,
one bird hurries off fast
as a turquoise-backed beetle flays its wings;
an annihilator of manifest destiny sings. 
not a native soul in indigenous garb is left, 
only hermit crab-like men in European shells,
acting freely after subjugation,
on weekend vacations
that unions gave them,
through  red-stained bungalow sheets
written in grief...
does anyone care?
that no more birds are flying there? 
only a foreign renegade can tell;
a fighter against death, a true rebel.
alone and cultish,
clinging to the few that knew him well,
into the mire with forced grin,
aware that only he himself can win
what no one would care to know;
that living things have gone away,
packing and unpacking junk so slow,
the world renounced,
down to the lonely bone. 

7-31-16 

Sunday, July 17, 2016

Keep Your Nature

from homeward i was coaxed upstream,
by a gentle breeze over the Han ravine, 
where swallows dart in tandem,
and swarms of gnats o'er weed patch hover,
a graceful egret swoops, 
with insight of its nest,
nature does the rest.
like the ant 
that marches through the thoroughfare,
unbeknownst the cul-de-sac,
detoured but not deterred, 
knows the way around,
and knows its way back;
its second nature.



7-17-16

Tuesday, June 21, 2016

Election Day u.s.a.

Trump or trumped-up
scares the dickens out of the u.s.
Bernie or boycott
or get off the bus

american is just a wo/man
pension-less,impoverished,in debt
give the workers a working hand 
Bernie or boycott, you bet!

procreate with Bernie, plant a seed
start it over or let it rot
you will not have another chance
for a chicken in every pot

listen here, Putin, no black man shot
the snow job that Snowden was provoking
the world keeps passing the u.s. by
either get with it or keep on smokin'

China had opium easily brought
a nation too high to fight what they fought
dream on Bernie, cream on Bernie
or found napping you will be caught

stand up for Bernie, your only chance
or let Trump quicken the fall
over the Hill-artillery still
making fools again of you all 

may 2016

Tuesday, June 7, 2016

plum rain suddenly


i do not need a weatherman
to know which way the plum rain blows
it is like blue lotus rising fragrantly from the Nile
slender green fingers of rice paddies drinking
awaiting a rescue by the one who loves me
from my sheltered bench
of porous wooden slats
within sight of the swift and narrow Han
fed by mountain streams looking
like white water rapids of mini-Colorado
with egrets on her shores 
waiting for worms to arise
like migratory ducks under an overpass
cleaning dirty wet feathers
after blue plum rain clouds burst upon us
 as vainly i cover a book of Seven Flowers
hunched over a vulnerable laptop 
with no place to go
or place i would rather be
breathing these tropical smells
of  lush green Taichung deeply
and no other tongue would i rather speak
than the language of passing storms 
no time would i rather have
than my own good time
staying dry in my lover's eye
near the mighty Han

6-7-16




Thursday, May 5, 2016

little falls big falls

little falls sound like big falls
natural falls sound like artificial
mountain falls like falls from a skyscraper
steppe falls or one long swoosh
falls into the sea like a river or stream
the bigger they are
the harder they fall, it seems
larger falls more thunderous
lowly flows over rocks and vines
irrigate more softly
the land not washed in time
rice paddy water lingers
sustenance grows 
let it flow through me
whichever way i may go
without looking upstream 
without looking down
whether airborne showers
or underground
 let me not be stagnant 
evaporated, molten
 let me not be wasted moisture
frozen frozen

5-2-16


Wednesday, April 20, 2016

perish the fresh

perish the fresh
in one life long day
nothing comes 
that does not go away
the river's illusion 
passing through
in spite of you
in passing time
does not follow dates
a straight line
in any situation
making hours minutes
excited heartbeat fast 
slow when tired
thirty-two years of teaching
into a forty-six minute lesson
the river surges
pushed by a storm
down mountain slopes
into fountains' water 
in weekend parks
and Old Faithful families
up from the depth of the cauldron 
here in a flash
now gone 


4-21-16