Category: My Poetry & Fiction

The moon was orange,
hovering there in the east,
chewing on buildings.

[daily log: walking, 8.5km]

Sleep
is strange,
since each night
we surrender
to the brain's stoppage,
as if it's protesting
the fruitless hours of doubting,
and has decided to walk out,
leaving us alone with our body.

Not even dawn, thoughts obsessed and creeping…
It's true, sleeping would be best…
Just get dressed.

Walking home after
a dinner with coworkers
I felt summer's weight.

Well, the devil is in the details.
You could read this poem and wonder.
But the darkness lurks beyond.
There, above or outside.
And couched in symbols.
Unseeable.
In plain sight.
Count it.
Hah.

[daily log: walking, 1.5km]

Can I find words that are hard, strong, useful,
meaningfully shattered shards,
but backwards?

Meaning emerges –
words' materiality –
like a windblown leaf.

A cerulean sky
A bit of wind tugging here
A mortal moment

Coming out as from a dream
Tilt and turn, the moon's agleam
Bending then to check my hand…
Ghosts afoot, nowhere to stand.

I dreamed all my world infested with worms.
Do its weird forms mean I'm stressed?
Not the best.

the ragged edges
and vast inchoate boundaries
of time aggregate… 

sometimes I wake up
terrified – as if I'm still
in the hospital.

Sometimes the dust that inhabits my room
spirals around as if searching for what
random thing might have been lost or forgot.

[daily log: walking, 7.5km]

Blank.
No poem.
Not a word.
Thoughts just a blur.
Deracinated.
A failure of symbols.
Adrift in meaninglessness.
An embodiment of silence.
Compositionally handicapped.

it has rained for days
relentless mini monsoon
memories flood in

Flash
lightning
crystalized
atmospheric
clouds and rain and air
sown by the sun's brooding
and harvested by the wind
to make bold lines in the gray sky
and illuminate my aging bones.

I waste so much food.
When I cook, I forget the change
that cancer gave me.

dreams
suspend
waking life's
uncertainties
replacing those with
a different set of doubts
which well up like floodwaters
murky, dark and full of bodies
to inundate the mind's furniture

[daily log: walking, 2km]

My thoughts just hang like wounded beasts that yield
to nothing, struggling on instead to death.

ㅁ
There is nothing here but silence.
Trees just stand, awaiting nighttime.
Dust and bones discarded lie here.
Look around, the soul is listless.
There is nothing here but silence.

– a pentastich of indeterminate tetrameter.

In a box in South Korea
lives a man quite eremetic.
Yet each day he goes to work and
herds the children to and fro.

My houseplants are mute.
The sky gazes upon them
through a square window.

[daily log: walking, 1.5km]

Clouds can be perfect
brooding gradations of gray
with contours like maps.

A pile of bones there;
Stark mountains without feature;
The wind claws at me.

I don't quite know what's been the problem.
A kind of struggle, doubting purpose.
In fact that's not uncommon for me.
But still it's bothersome to deal with.

So… morning again
the sky bemused by dull rain
my window spits wind

I own just four spoons.
Well, it's odd, in fact it's five.
But one I don't like.

The sky is darker than blue – more like black.
The moment lacks depth, though, true.
Think it through.