nine haiku: flowers that grow back

surprise my eyes 
wonder my mind 
flowers grow back

twist off flowers with stems
into a vase of treated water
they shrivel

go down to the riverside
gather flowers 
gone!

dragonflies dart
tiny breezes retreat
typhoon arrives

pick it up, drop it
pick it up, drop it
breeze kicks a plastic bag

chanting wind
in the dark 
nature howls its mantra

mayhem passes
sun comes out
flowers rise again

stop time 
in the wrong direction 
undress the illusion

birds sing
ears ring
sit and listen 

july 27, 2017

why learn a foreign language

before being thrown out the window
walk out the door
being persona non-grata 
is a dream no more 
all languages are foreign there
except for Anglo-Saxon
but if you were born
on that side of the wall
keep out or let yourself back in
you can not be imprisoned
having committed no crime
having paid all taxes
not liable to a fine
go to where healthcare is free
where life has liberty
and with your ancestors be
as cancer consumes the American brain
flip the switch, pull the plug 
board the next train 
bound for glory
in a world away from
the death of democracy
overseas
where no language is foreign

july 27, 2017

someone missing flowers

it is morning five-fifteen eastern time

along the American seaboard

so there is no one to call from Taiwan

at five-fifteen after noon

no one there thinking of me

though she may be in bed awake

unable to sleep

birds here fly their dusk time patterns

in crystalline pre-typhoon air

on a poet’s bench facing the Han

thinking of her dark wakefulness

next to a snoring husband

as i strain to hear a singing bird

above the din of weekend traffic

heading home for Monday

she tries closing her eyes

relieved her tomorrow is Sunday

and does not see me squinting

to see a patch of wild pink flowers

no longer hugging

a blanched boulder

on the other side of the river

gone away in one day’s passing

as long shadows reach across the empty space

she does not think of someone missing flowers

somewhere along a Taichung river

on an island off the coast of China

july 23, 2017

i am a wild pink patch of flowers hugging the riverside

i am a wild pink patch of flowers hugging the riverside

coming to call with happy pizza on a Cambodian home

keeping the curry spicy and the chicken jerky

surprisingly alive throughout the burn-out 

from weed to wheat grass plantation owner

on the stoop of Facebook’s self-serving lot

 my first love's everything i said i would be

living not to regret the better side of her

what the rest could not remember

pissing on the river banks'

not lifting a finger in thanks

thy-selves in mirrors reflective

myself with thoughts of a garden collective

a plastic bag blows downwind under the bike

a swarm of gnats hovers beyond the dyke’s ledge

like wisps of smoke from a burning bush

the river flowing through as tall bent grass

forgets what it is thinking of saying

distracted by the groaning of tires rolling by

the Doppler effect of meaningless passages

paragliders landing wherever they can

floating fast and buoyant from clouds

as a frog somewhere croaks in time

like a wooden fish mantra

the landscape paints my mind

wiping away all that it left behind  

july 22, 2017

an ode to my feet

Butterfly Foot Video

white feet up to the sock line

tan legs from ankles to shorts

too long shrouded from the river

 an ode to my feet is taught

odorless and not too sweet

walking with them cannot be beat

and when peddling away

let me repeat

there is no better way for us to meet

this may sound flat-footed so to speak

but i have a ball with the sole of my feet

never a heel in the agony of defeat

look a little closer at my tootsies

as they bake in the Taichung sun

the crooked pointer toes

bent from years of tight-fitted shoes

leaning away from the thumb toe grows

that is how the story goes

what will become of the fungus nail

that the poor left thumb toe must bear

with flip-flops on for all to see

i do not have vanity or care

in Taiwan’s open-footed trends

all-season naked to their friends

come out smelling like roses

the other end of peoples’ noses

and any angle from a chair

my pair look quite complete

like any other pair i meet

but my pair grow no hair

none i would care to tweet

i walk them here, i walk them there

down busy city streets for hours

up mountain trails

wet in swimming pools

steamed in saunas or soaped in showers

bound in Chuck Taylors

inside multi-colored Cons

laced tightly ‘round the ankles

kept from tangling bicycle pedals

in socks tucked folded down

spinning inches from the ground

my feet are safe and sound

tortured not by jogging pound

this is how i get around

barefoot strolls in Taiwan summer

no danger here of broken glass

but beware of bites from strangers

hiding in the weeds and grass

and when sore feet need therapy

to blind men in the Taipei metro go

acupuncture from masseuses

or do it myself rubbing slow

though some may think that too retro

from footbath to footpath run

from ocean to burning sand

between my toes on a blanket goes

kicking out the jams

on a beach chair tap a tune

or dancing with my mama

around the living room

only feet appreciate

a foot would understand

no marching off to war for them

that is where i make my stand

on the sacred home ground

side-stepping goose-stepping

my partner’s feet unbound

rubbing her toes tenderly

wiggling and tickling her

and pinching her hounds

when no one is around

walking knee-deep down a river

sliding on pebbles, slipping on stones

in the coolness of a emerald quarry pond

dive feet of tired bones

or immersed in a mountain stream 

an aboriginal dream 

through a forest of lush green ink

but when there is no natural setting

bathe them in a sink

July 4, 2017