Category: A Daily Poem

(Poem #382 on new numbering scheme)

Obliviously walking roads
in silent kingdoms trapped,
he runs a hand against an edge
to find what has been mapped.

(Poem #381 on new numbering scheme)

The ghosts await you, clustered at the edge
of what you know to be actually true.
Then in between the bursts of summer's rain
they peer at you, admonishing your mood.

(Poem #380 on new numbering scheme)

He casts his dull cliches into the world
like crumbs of bread dispensed to hungry birds
but worse, these birds are mere robotic shades
which cannot eat but only peck and strut.

(Poem #378 on new numbering scheme)

Some stones suggested,
take a moment. So I did.
The summer went on.

[daily log: walking; well, no]

(Poem #377 on new numbering scheme)

The floor announced itself as if alive.
I found some stray vocabulary there,
it lay in scattered piles, collectively
devoid of use or meaning. I just sighed.

(Poem #376 on new numbering scheme)

In small increments
the night eats the moon. Seasons
eat seasons, the same.

(Poem #375 on new numbering scheme)

The plants put forth their fronds aggressively
and trace their yearnings through the damp, still air.
A dragonfly is spinning tales with bits
of iridescent blues and greens and dreams.

(Poem #374 on new numbering scheme)

Today I walked more slowly than I do
more typically. I trudged instead of walked.
I can't say why this was. Perhaps I'm tired
from long hot days, or maybe full of angst.

(Poem #373 on new numbering scheme)

A particle floats
suspended in the air. Dust.
The sun's beam shows me.

(Poem #372 on new numbering scheme)

Once time became an instrument
Diaphanous but real
Then aliens could play it well -
spun like a giant wheel.

(Poem #371 on new numbering scheme)

The heat is a stone.
It's heavy and pulls down clouds.
The monsoon drizzles.

(Poem #370 on new numbering scheme)

"It's just like dust," she said without delay.
But no, it wasn't dust. It was more like
pale scatterings of quantum quarks at play
and then taking a rest - or gone on strike.
She found a bone - part of an angel's wing.
She wondered out loud, "How did this get here?"
It seemed like all was dead - yes, everything.
Her slow gaze swept around. She felt some fear.
So turning, she walked back to the strange gate.
She'd found it in her dream, and gone through quick.
But now she felt regret. It was too late.
The path was lengthening, the air grew thick.
If finally she made it back to home,
She'd never forget that dream's monochrome.

[daily log: walking, 7km]

(Poem #368 on new numbering scheme)

A few tall trees were thrusting down
their fists into the dampened earth
while trying to reach heaven's crown,
frustration foiling hope and worth.
And meanwhile buses crawled along
recondite routes because ignoring
the trees would keep them bold and strong
and vegetation is quite boring.
A cat was watching, her tail twitching,
as spirits started to emerge
between the cracks, faces bewitching,
suggesting some old hunter's urge.
In those slow buses, dull souls sat.
The trees preferred that wise gray cat.

(Poem #367 on new numbering scheme)

Pebbles on the curb;
a cluster of grass. The sun
seeks the cicadas.

(Poem #366 on new numbering scheme)

Far out in open country where dogs run,
and creatures fight each other with their sticks,
and piles of bones lie scattered here and there
beneath the trees... there I will take a rest.

(Poem #365 on new numbering scheme)

I brought him home to wash him clean.
The Rainbow Monkey dries.
He's cleaner than he was before.
But still he's not so wise.

(Poem #363 on new numbering scheme)

The weather is warm.
People are screaming outside.
Maybe they're happy.

[daily log: walking, 1km]

(Poem #362 on new numbering scheme)

Some clouds disputed with the ground and trees.
The earth kept forcing its branches skyward;
the sky in turn was throwing down droplets.
My friend and I were waiting; so we talked.
I sat and pulled out from my pocket, then,
my smartphone, checking something. Suddenly
a splash of rain struck the screen. Like magic,
the dictionary app was opened. "Look,"
my friend insisted, "there's your next poem."

(Poem #361 on new numbering scheme)

A cup on the edge
of the counter. I'll wash it
later this evening.

(Poem #360 on new numbering scheme)

It's better to refuse an argument
with shadows and shades. They can seem to lack
originality and anyway
they will agree with all your rhetoric.

(Poem #359 on new numbering scheme)

Korea's been my home almost ten years
and here I never drive a car. Yet still
I dream the driving dreams: road trips of youth
relived like films, a night or two each month.

(Poem #357 on new numbering scheme)

The clouds became a fortress hung
against the rainy sky
The buildings lurked beneath, alone
like animals too shy.

(Poem #356 on new numbering scheme)

Some words come like air,
others like sleep. Steam rises
from July's pavement.

[daily log: walking, 7.5km]

(Poem #355 on new numbering scheme)

Apocalypses come and go
like swathes of summer rain
They sweep across the warm, damp streets
and push leaves down the drain.

(Poem #354 on new numbering scheme)

At work, I sometimes get so angry.
This tends to arise out of doubts:
the quality of my work.
Am I making progress?
Students fail to learn.
Colleagues don't care.
Kids complain.
I can't
help.

(Poem #353 on new numbering scheme)

If I had said the rock was mystified
what would have been my meaning? Would a rock
have hoped to understand what I had said?
Or would the rock just lie there, doing zen?

(Poem #352 on new numbering scheme)

the trees hang, depressed.
traffic zooms through summer's heat
and humidity.