Category: My Poetry & Fiction

Through the night's substance
I tug against the cold air
trying to find stars.

When rain is forecast,
the sun comes. When it says sun,
clouds gather and brood.

The arrow of time entrains the morning
and some coffee and again
I see rain.

knowledge accretes to my soul like space dust
so the mind is somewhat full
but not dull

"Hey kids! How are you?
Did you all do your homework?"
… faces showed no joy.

yesterday's smog hung listless in my mind
the gray atmosphere's kindness
her caress.

[daily log: walking, 1.5km]

Despair instantiates an arrogance
of sorts, a solipsistic mirroring
that only can permit one type of cause.

An overcast dawn asserted rights
to pale entry through my window,
and leaching out my room's warmth,
grasped the edges of things
until they were seen
and knowable,
stained with truth,
silver,
gray.

emerging from sleep
fragments of anotherworld
shatter against dawn

luminosity
appears unbidden. the sky
invites reflection.

Blue is the color of heaven's great kingdom, and
Blue can be seen as a manifestation, a
Blue and apparently vast inspiration, but
Blue in this country, well sometimes it's green.

well
sometimes
the many
diversified
spinning and whirling
motes of meaning begin
to gather and coalesce
into a knowable network
of nodes arrayed like drunk weavers' cloth

The transformation into spring begun:
cold raindrops – scattered pattern sketched and seen
upon my window's wiry gridded screen,
as if they're stranded insects in the sun.

Out from experience slowly we render the concepts by writing.
Sometimes the poem appears in a billowing cloud like a sunset
gathering empire of birds: just some random arrangement of dactyls.

[daily log: walking, 8km]

The sky was quite bright
because of the moon. There was ice
grasping the sidewalk.

every night we die;
in the morning the world's new:
just walking circles.

Night was a blue and impossible arch that descended from heavenly
spaces and darker than demonic hearts, and all rain-washed, untouchable.

The brooding brain did not discuss its plans,
Nor did the body act on brain's behalf.

I put slices of bread on a plate.
They're better if I heat them some.
Coffee, just instant, is fine.
There must be some water.
It's pretty boring.
But my taste buds
were removed:
food's not
fun.

The sky was greenish
because the sun was setting
and there were few clouds.

sometimes you feel like
cleaning things out – it's a mess…
you could blame the spring

Why harbor such bitterness, you might ask?
Disgruntlement is timeless…
I digress.

late fragments of snow
or freezing rain pelt my face
but they're selling spring

certain thoughts hove into focus
seeping in and dreaming
hypnagogical hypnosis
teasing tastes of blooming lotus
downward notions streaming

The moon was an arc:
narrow, upturned, welcoming
heaven to the earth.

The plain was littered with stunted trees.
A faceless horizon swept out,
distilling epics and dreams.
The companion was gone,
and so he just kept
walking alone
there under
heaven's
gaze.

night consumed the air
wreaking havoc among dust
taking bites of clouds

Words align like birds arrayed and
fanning out, just flying;
shifting metaphors… a brigand
stumbles, falls in forest quicksand:
thus my meaning failing.

Today was Lunar New Year's day. I sat
and contemplated those things never known.

[daily log: walking, unknown.]

I had a dream about a bed
it all developed in my head
I thought I might begin to rest
but then I woke; it wasn't best.

Walking down some piney ridgeline –
where is Gobong Mountain?
No one paused in dodging sunshine
nor remarked the landscape's incline…
no response was counted.

He climbed those many steps, and reached the top.
The tree was brandishing its branches high,
awaiting human sacrifice and blood,
at least as metaphor for tasting life.

The ancient man arose and climbed the hill,
the scent of eucalypts bestrode the breeze.
He brought his withered body like a weight
to be discarded once the gods were met.