crystallize the dew in cold breezes

crystallize the dew in cold breezes 
as it does over tiny Kyoto roads 
into a chilled Nijo-jo Castle moat
rippling green lichen to its stormy sides
looking like raked lines of pebbles  
around Shitennoji Temple, Osaka
lines of sunshine in Golden Pavilion pond
shingled roof of Buddah Hall in Todaiji, Nara
far from the melted exhaustion
of deep-fried Taichung night markets
like smoke from rice-stalk bonfires, rising slowly
shrouding mountains in smog-saturated air 
obscuring the fine gal she would become 
a widowed bride's dalliance
upon remarriage 

Dec. 19, 2016

lost in time in Sheepshead Bay

lost in time in Sheepshead Bay
substitute Taiwanese with Russians  
replace cement rectangles with mansions 
potato and rice paddy for smoked fish and salads 
egrets for terns
motorbikes for baby bumpers 
fireworks for horns and sirens 
prolific writer with writer's block 
in the chill of summer
in the winter bare
Jamaica Bay farewell
literally unconscious
sea bells squinting, zephyr quaint
cannabis high tide seventies
evolving revolving readily 
fearlessly alone on the rocky shore
a prince in king's borough with one glass slipper
attending to balls behind metal zippers
fruitful like a fishing boat, staying afloat
until our family returned to port
with a flow of night crawlers off the hook 
diving bell pressures of a classroom, 
no chapbook, no time to look
no energy arousing passion
and what is more  
kept my hands off the closing doors
kept my mind on emergency cords
face crushed against a Q train window
hoping the last stop is not Coney Island frantic
but beautiful Taiwan island romantic
with dragonflies, butterflies opening eyes 
a gentler Han River Atlantic 
green mountains blocking the glaring sun
of a fateful Brooklyn well beyond

December 4, 2016

sing, all ye Han River birds at dusk

sing, all ye Han River birds at dusk
play tag around guzheng tall grass 
bent like guitar strings in Beck's Bolero
chase your wet shadows across glistening rocks
race your kindred spirit across the stream 
hide and seek in Taichung terrarium 
hover, dive, and soar on shore
over bikers elongated in the setting sun
over earth masters stretched to the breaking point
dance the two-wing shuffle o'er man-made ledges
be loud and fast in our absence
making sense out of nonsense 
sing ye wing'd heroes of nature
play melodies over road motor mumble
bring scenes of gleaming greens and bowing boughs  
as the sun sinks low to kiss golden patties
to fragile nested shelters fly
when music fades and stars begin to shine 
before your orchestra is drowned 
in a blanket of headlights and gnats
heralding bats' high frequency song
till aviary diners return at dawn

November 7, 2016

observe the sour wild strawberry

observe the sour wild strawberry
green and lowdown 
growing in the happy garden
nurtured until plump
squirreled behind chicken wire 
weeded and watered 
until ready to be plucked
but eaten away by ants
never got the chance

Han River banks are overgrown
hiding myriad screeching birds 
bending boughs of tall grass
singing songs in the soft Tan-Zih breeze
even egrets swoop to land
hear the brisk cacophony 
well prepared for winter
unlike the sour wild strawberry

breezily, the rice stalks dream into
crackling pops of dissipation 
boy-shaped cloud drifts
from skies of mother earth
under her skirt 
attached to a sustaining runner
a sour wild strawberry revealed  
consuming the fumes of fragrant nights

November 5, 2016

last week of summer as Taichung wind chills

last week of summer as Taichung wind chills
mix smoldering smoke of spent stalk patties 
with power plant zinc-tongued bitter residue
as furrows are built for potato rain to seep
so for lunar new year spuds can creep

yesterday department story ramen noodling 
movie evening with cheese, wine, and wife 
me like Bill Murray, her Sheepshead Bay saint
with E-Z Con Thursday's child bowling for dollars 
Mandarin student pulling hamstrings for dinner

Wednesday swimming and blogging on
evening movie rocked to sleep
Tuesday's return from Tainan Congress
closing ceremony awards and applause  
lovely Rita's climatic effortless cause

Tainan Monday, Green Tunnel and museum 
Matzu temple touring to Eternal Golden Castle
an evening with beer, fried fish and friends
Sunday a swim after Plum Rain recitation
historical library humbling sensation

Saturday railroad elevated southbound
check-in at Tayih Landis gala dinner
meeting dignitaries and poets exchanging books 
forgetting Friday's child who never showed
one long story growing old

Thursday tutorial lost in Plum Rain translation
middle school  students exposing Child Labour 
readers theater troupe in final rehearsal
after Wednesday peddling bike up the Han
rice paddies blossomed already farmed 

up from a Kaohsiung one writer workshop
to ride northwesterly winds down the river
blocked by a mother's son my thoughts forlorn
with strength in my faith, Brooklyn born, i go
onto jolly rancher teachers where all ants swarm 

Oct. 31, 2016

a mother's son returns the favor

a mother's son returns the favor
that slap that made him breathe
together they cry unabated 
back to their lives awaited
from birth through separation 

perhaps they will walk upright
abandon their struggles
crawl out of the night
assure each other
that all is alright

give and take a bequest 
with no fight or resistance
only childlike insistence
only faith and fate
when a son returns the favor

Oct. 12, 2016

book launches a frenzy of support

book launches a frenzy of support 
success in vanity, press assured
in a small circle, in a Mandarin city
heavy English words in little Taiwan
feel like a trip to 7-11; letting the motor run

those dogs heard barking in the passive voice
are silenced when the food is released  
but resume yelping as a stranger approaches
a stranger whose presence raises fear
soon becomes a pack that no one goes near

fill not a bucket with filthy fairy yarns
for a river thus polluted never comes clean
no reparation but scars from hate
grant me the serenity of letting it go
allow me the peace of watching the river flow

a passing typhoon shredding paper trees
leaves a mess of twigs to burn away 
gathered round the sacrificial bonfire 
unsupported wordsmiths like torn out stumps
more concerned with info dumps


words blown off e-books like sand from mandalas
less than a whisper, more like a holler
no Amazon mermaid can satisfy in dollars
can fulfill the dreams floating in my head
of clouds gathering steam from the river bed

Oct.1, 2016

A Heinlein Maneuver

fantastic mechanism for time travel
by freezing the door into summer
then finding and taking credit for
some future invention
it was a Heinlein maneuver

incestuous flashback of all you zombies
built  on ploys of a high school boy 
for writers interested in prophesy
bet your Dick on breakfast at twilight
it was a Heinlein maneuver

warn us what the end would be like
and bizarre human problems encountered
caused by time distortions
its relativistic dilation for the stars
it was a Heinlein maneuver

the curved world-line Einstein long resisted
of sending telephone signals down the line
to measure the echo of time 
by the bootstraps of philosophical desperation 
it was a Heinlein maneuver

like laws of logic preventing angle trisections
or squaring Farnham Freehold's family circles
he blasted him future-ward by nuclear direct hit
with popular sexual loops in time
it was a Heinlein maneuver

for the farthest paradox in the zombie zoo
for a science fiction porn-star fan's view
sex with one's mother back in the future
for strangers in a strange land
it was a Heinlein maneuver

Sept. 24, 2016

love a woman who reads not your poems

love a woman who reads not your poems
for poetry is only what she dreams in sleep
let the storm crash and pages be dampened
she hears not a word from you what happened
but punctuates your life with commas and dashes 
exclamation marks and ending periods
picking up with you in another verse
pick it apart, it can become worse

love a woman who forgoes reading blogs
with a ringside seat to your circus
she knows your clowns and acrobatics
your frowns and antibiotics
drinks with you the wine of celebration
puts puzzle pieces perfectly juxtaposed 
with practical solutions right under your nose
with you in her heart, the journal stays closed

love not a woman for novel ideas 
translucent history over the years
with thunderclap downpours reeling you in
and forgiven flashbacks of forgotten times
she passes the chapters that ended in blaze
the pot-boiling heroines that led you astray
untitled, unnumbered, her masterpiece, you
and counts not the volumes binding you two

love only a woman who messages back
with instant cartoons of emotion
wordlessly wandering smiles away
a speechless type of keyboard
void of critique or double entendre
only bedtime stories of unwritten genre
dreary-eyed in an unconscious stream
love a woman who reads your dreams

Sept. 17, 2016 

New Vistas off the Tan-Zih Bike Path

dragonflies hover like mad drones,
searching for terrorist mosquitoes
over a tall, stiff, lawn of rice paddies,
large enough for a field of dreams.
that is what it seems to be,
from a wooden kiosk off the Tan-Zih path,
where a new vista detoxifies me,
from civilization's wrath.



unseen roosters greet the day,
like scooters in the hurried fray. 
in free range play they see a light,
a shaft from heaven reaching down
to someone's dinner plate with
rice that swayed in Tan-Zih breeze,
landscaping our viewpoints, 
with only us to please.



congressional poets mincing words
at an Am-way convention, expenses-paid.
excitement from the bleacher seat,
one and all the chairman greets.
even winners pay a price,
that losers lost poetically,
from angles they cannot strangle,
recited refreshingly. 

bicyclists peddle the lengthy path,
passing time smiling, retired, reaching
tanks and train tracks, jet airplanes, 
as alone i sit gazing through the distance, 
writing yesterdays of tomorrows as
tail gunners shoot, give me flack.
i prefer facing nature that fills my eyes,
ride further, why, in the end doubling back.



the American Eagle has landed,
this spacey traveler disembarking, 
a testament to resiliency and professionalism,
but even that cannot undo poor management,
their only prophet, the bottom line
that does not recognize alien talent
over the hill and through the woods,
new vistas on his palette



tarry not home before the storm.
finish this verse, get back on the bike. 
ride rejuvenated through green fields,  
palm trees bent and swayed.
stay not long in stranded days,
but ride along her river bed,
feel me coming back instead,
before this poet is famously dead. 

Sept. 2, 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

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 

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

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

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 River Han

6-7-16

 

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Copyright © 2016 by David Barry Temple. All rights reserved.