Bowing Formally

May 29, 2017

A snowy heron

on the snowfield

where winter grass is unseen

hides itself

in its own figure.

— Dogen

Mothers

May 15, 2017

At the fatal risk of corniness, here is a simple poem for mother’s day.


All living creatures seek
their own good. Parents seek
the good of their offspring.
Mothers actually give
their own flesh.

Mothers naturally love
their children, however
I think some natural things
do not come easily.

Untitled

April 20, 2017

Delivered at TentCity protest outpost against gentrification at Turner Field, Atlanta, April 2017.

—————————————————

Search the pockets of your jeans

And find the phrases, monuments and faces

Of men who said “Liberty”, but its meaning

They did not understand. European races,

Men,  had property. But it was the basis

Of the country, this idea of Liberty.

Autonomy. Come to public spaces;

Know you needs, govern your community.

And choose your way of life. Make your living.

Your hands, ideas, your money are the promise

You can make yourselves, form your own identity.

The people will envision their own progress.

But look down Windsor Street and tell me,

What does freedom mean if you don’t own your city?

No. 13

April 15, 2017

Preparing my heart

on this silent spring night’s walk

for tea with a friend.

Another Night

April 12, 2017

The dust of the earth
Settles in the horizons;
Atmospheric window-pane
Becomes unclouded.

The tarnished moon,
Cleans as its edge may seem,
Suffers eons.

It seems the stars
Sing muted melodies,
Forlorn in their age.

Consumed by time,
Separated by time,
This universe.

Constellations
Traced by my tired eyes–
Is there a story
In entropy?

And I wonder
what the ancients saw at night.

Lacklustre

April 11, 2017

Desiring to be possessed,
I took the unused path and,
With purpose,
Toward a clearing strode
To wait for inspiration.

Alas, nothing has come of it
And I was only left
With my mere self.

No. 12

February 26, 2017

Disappointed hopes

Things strewn carelessly around

I deserve nothing,

though.

No. 11

October 23, 2016

Not searching for words,

I saw, framed by white branches,

the last thousand years.

No. 10

August 22, 2016

An emanation

Of white-hot sparks on the sea:

The moon’s treadless path.

Song of the Ephemeral

August 19, 2016

Over the verdant hillock,

starry with daffodils:

empty cerulean skies

if not for a cloud,

Northerly lining aglow–

dissipating.

 

The brush caught fire too

beneath the sinking daylight

as it grew red-hot,

Heavens and Earth both consumed.

 

Indeed, that burning edge still flickers

while all the world around me withers.