Published Poems
Old Faithful
Published in Poetry Quarterly (2018)
I love to go back to hang around,
wait for the next discharge of "Old Faithful."
A remaining predictable event on earth.
The geyser does not know how to quit.
Boiling water simmers to gather steam,
an inner rhythm dictates all the prep work.
Always ready for the next dutiful eruption.
Show after show, with or without audience.
A regular interval, a rest, an intermission.
The repetitive performance is breathtaking.
Hot spring blessed with standing ovation.
The lore gets verified, the legend continues.
Does old faithful erupt with a mission?
Is it an exhibition of never giving up?
Ever tired of keeping up with the clock?
Never concerned about running out of steam?
Gush, surge, blast the steam heaven bound.
A persistent insistence, a never-ending battle.
Is it too late to stop predicting the end is nigh?
Too soon to despair for the future of humankind?
Old faithful speaks out in multiple encores,
holds on to the eternal principle.
Locust
Published in Leaves-of-Ink (December 2018)
I breed.
I torment.
There is no end.
We discreate.
We embroil.
There is no truce.
We wipe out all crops.
We eat up everything in our way.
There is no peace.
Famine, starvation, misery,
not my problems.
I have to satisfy my need.
There is nothing above my greed.
I am born to inflame,
to swarm,
to tear things apart,
to aggregate,
to destroy.
My right, I claim.
Others, I frame and blame.
Never apologize,
no remorse, no shame.
Bible recorded,
history paused,
let it be.
I am born to get what I aim.
I am born to inflame.
Hummingbird
Published in The Lyric (2020)
I dream at night and reverie is my life,
pretending to work while whirring both wings,
I heed every rumor, the gossip is rife.
Grass is greener over the fence as they sing.
I am humming so fast, making myself dizzy.
Starving all the time, I’m hungry for nectar.
Perching, resting, then buzzing and busy.
With earful of cues, I'm a bustling detector.
It’s a dream to turn my instinct to vision,
if I can avoid the next collision.
I Can See It in My Daughters’ Eyes
Published in California Quarterly/California State Poetry Society (2020)
“I can see it in my daughters’ eyes,
when I talk to them about this every night.
I can see the fear....they’re taking it all in.”*
This will transform how we think and what we are.
It’ll form a new generation through this blight.
I can see it in my daughters’ eyes.
No one is alone, regardless the color of skin.
No one's been here before; we’re all in, in this fight.
I can see the fear...they’re taking it all in.
It’ll change us; how we live, how we buy,
how we work, how we stand up against this fright.
I can see it in my daughters’ eyes.
Loved ones die, supplies are running thin,
it's heartbreaking to witness this plight.
I can see the fear....they’re taking it all in.
They won’t remember who lost or who won.
They’ll remember who saved lives, turned on the light.
I can see it in my daughters’ eyes.
I can see the fear...they’re taking it all in.
*Governor Andrew Cuomo’s daily briefing on 3/27/2020, reported in the Los Angeles Times by Seema Mehta and Melanie Mason on the same day.
The Year’s Gone By, the Thought Never Dies
Published in Time of Singing poetry journal (2021)
I only wish there was a chance to say good-bye.
The year’s gone by, the thought never dies.
I wrote to you, the place I went, the book I read,
the song composed, the people kind and dread.
The ups and downs I trust you witness up there.
In breeze, in gust, I know you are somewhere.
I keep on looking, it drains me of all my might,
I keep on listening, your calling, day and night.
Someday we will meet again, you told me,
the path untangled in the jungle, I will see,
along the ditch and gulch, wherever you are,
nothing stops me from gazing at shining star,
passing the gorge, ravine, the barren moor,
the signs, the smells, just follow the spoor,
snakes rustle the sedges, baby birds try to fly,
hungry hawks extend their wings, take the sky.
Afraid not, retreat not, the vow never fails,
the day will come I’ll catch the ship before it sails.
So long as the sun rises, the light shines at dawn,
so long as the moon hangs high, the dream dreams on.
Today Only One Face
Published in Chronogram magazine (2021)
What happens if all rumors are true.
Don’t ask me where it comes from.
It is in the smell of morning air.
In the silence, conscience speaks out.
Something in the throat.
Line after line, are they in the same boat?
Many voices; howls, murmurs, whispers.
Many colors; white, black, yellow, brown...
Many ages; young, old, very old.
Many faces,
and each person wears many of them.
Today, only the same year-long worn-out face;
Like hat, dust laden, rugged trace of washing,
like shoe, uneven bottom,
cushion depressed, suffocated, air is gone.
Like pant, seams split, thread disappears.
Like glove, fingers poking out of holes.
Like old clothes,
like that everyday jacket, color faded.
Like old zipper, out of half step.
Like hair, decide to bid farewell
and you wish the good-bye hug
will last longer.
Like saggy sock.
Like beaten-down brush of toothbrush.
Like mirror, always numerous spots.
Like that very old car, maybe next year.
Many voices, many colors,
many ages, many faces.
It has been a long journey.
Today, only one face.
And the Sky Will Be Blue
Published in Ibbetson Street (2021)
Inspired by the song and lyrics of Bailero.
Shepherd, are you having a good time?
The meadow is greener on our side.
If you can’t sing Bailero,
just listen to the chants
of Auvergne.
If you can’t see that far, smell
the scent of wild narcissi,
blue sage,
yellow daisies and
pink cow parsley.
Bring your lambs to graze on our side.
Creek is shallow, not rapid.
Do not let the water divide us.
I will come down to help you.
Let’s bring over the lambs
one by one,
stand in the middle of the water,
jump, jump,
do not let the water divide us.
Come and visit us, shepherd.
A long way from
Auvergne to California.
Not now, not
under the orange sky.
Comes, next spring, shepherd
comes.
Bring your lambs to see
the blooming California poppy,
the infinite orange meadow
blankets the whole valley.
And the sky will be blue.
Paradise
Published in Chronogram Magazine (2021)
When you were a little painter,
every line, color, came from me;
floating not on any foundation,
time and time again,
you saw me through the clouds.
When you were not a painter,
you forgot me.
You needed something solid
to sit on or stand up.
When you pick up brush again,
you try to paint me,
but cannot find me.
You think
you can reconstruct from your memory;
a river,
trees full of foliage,
abundant fruits,
a bungalow,
couple of hammocks…..
But you cannot remember the color,
or how it floated.
Moonlight
Published in California Quarterly/California State Poetry Society (2021)
You always foresee,
the way to a tranquil life;
amble the sidewalks,
let the world pass by,
leave the war to the Olympians.
You still expect if you breathe, stare into the sky,
some stars will guide you.
You are right.
The path goes first through Asphodel meadows,
flowers under sun, still.
I try to answer your murmuring every night,
if you gaze harder,
angels may turn into stars.
A Man on the Tightrope
Published in Poetry Quarterly (2021)
On first sight,
I loved the painting.
A man on the tightrope with a balancing pole.
He was up there not to perform,
he seems was forced shakily standing there,
an albatross to learn how to balance his life.
I got the painting,
hung it in my family room.
I looked at him in the morning
and came home at night.
It reminded me, one misstep, life ruined.
I moved the painting to my office.
I liked to think he inspired me not to be
afraid of walking on the tightrope.
Years, decades,
after stumbling and out of balance many times,
I began to wonder,
how did he learn his trade.
That was the time he began to speak to me,
how he chose the pole,
the length, the weight,
and the cable;
how his hands, fingers gripped the pole;
drifted, swayed in the wind;
how his toes nailed the wire;
where his eyes were staring at;
his ears, listening to;
how his mind paused and pulsed,
left, right, up and down.
He told me,
he was not trained as a tightrope walker,
but he took it to learn how to face fears,
defy danger,
adapt to the obstacles,
and how to balance the body and mind.....
his voice spoke volumes when I was broke,
knocked down on the floor.
This morning, I went into the office,
the painting was down on the ground,
the wire hanging the painting broke,
the man, on the floor.
I left him there.
Glass shattered;
his voice shattered;
doom finally came?
Did he learn how to fall?
I did not hear his voice.
He still holds onto his pole.
Epilogue
Published in Time of Singing poetry journal (2021)
Acapella or a violin’s vibrato,
duet, trio, in parody or rhapsody,
he breathes fast to level the staccato,
smooth as a harmonious melody,
a poem jibing the syntax and prosody,
a sail boat fading in the sunset,
an elder fisherman mending his net.
Near sunset, he buries both feet in the dry sand,
the grains trickle between every bare toe.
Jogging alone with sandals in his hand,
in the morning, up before the rooster’s crow,
along the shore, deep breath, lets it all go.
While early birds chase after the receding tide,
ripples efface stipples before the sand is dried.
I Don’t Know Why
Published in California Quarterly/California State Poetry Society (2021)
I don’t know why it came in search of me.
I don’t know when or how it came.
It came in the light or dark, I couldn’t see.
Dust in the wind, breezes rustle in the tree.
A speck in the universe, it has no name.
I don’t know why it came in search of me.
It sails in a canoe on the wild sea,
in and out of waves with no aim.
It came in the light or dark, I couldn’t see.
I know it is there, still coming, it seems.
Nothing to hook on, nothing to claim.
I don’t know why it came in search of me.
A small bird, a nest, it’s real, not a dream.
It’s neither words nor voices, it is calm.
It came in the light or dark, I couldn’t see.
It is not a summons, it carries no theme.
It was cold, I can feel it now, it is warm.
I don’t know why it came in search of me.
It came in the light or dark, I couldn’t see.
The following poems were published in local
and overseas newspapers prior to 2016.
Scars
(In the world we live in today, there are hundreds of conflicts a day:
demonstrations, protests, clashes, collisions, confrontations, battles,
combat and wars.)
Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.
Burnt, charred, raging fire, wounded mourn.
Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.
Farmers run for cover, ruined and broke.
The plough mars body and soul, bruised and torn.
Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.
Politicians debate media. Croak, grunt and choke.
Students, parents on the street and the newly born.
Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.
It drives rich men to the wall and cloak,
poor men to the floor, no place no thorn.
Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.
Philosophers calm each soul and every folk.
No place to occupy, nothing to scorn.
Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.
Inching forward, tortoises crawl and poke.
Onward, onward towards the finish morn.
Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.
Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.
Home
When you have time please come home sometime.
Over the mountain in the valley through the gate,
follow the winding road to the top, breeze anytime.
The home is not the old house that springs your fate.
Someday you'll know why we move through each alley
as a raft, moors in mire, mud and slough, a holm
next to the shrub, the hill and the whole valley.
It is where we call home that was never your home.
A resting place midway to the end of cloud.
Waves find its shore, a shelter just a hutch.
Sow and plow, dig and till to make you proud.
Simple, humble there is a plan and no crutch.
Laurels wither and rose petals crumple.
In the wind, graying hair tousle and rumple.
Surgery
A message said you are thinking of me,
and wonder how did my surgery go?
If there is anything you can do, feel free
to contact you. You would really like to know.
With your Parkinson's, you have to keep
footsteps short. Balance is job number one.
You need a ride to go any place, in and schlep
out of the car is easier said than done.
Hear you want to help me in any way
you can, reminds me of the dire
story of a blind and a deaf stump in a fray,
baffle and struggle out of the blazing fire.
I erased the message, it vanished in the air.
That's a long time ago, the voice is still there.
