Under Ice

On the edge of the earth

I feel that galaxy

rotating, turning

how it must really be,

while my hands press

up from under

the glass–

The ever splendor light

tries to melt us

our fingers

to pierce through darkness

once more–

I am cold

very cold

that I no longer shiver

but am waiting

waiting for a voice

to take me back

from my frozen slumber

a stillness

in a breathless dream

where inaudible sounds

of children and families

run and laugh, talking

in a far away place

on a silent hill

of green

and frosty desperation

where the dream-catcher

of earth

captures

every last piece of life

from a bountiful tulip

to a fallen red leaf

once from a maple tree

now, all coated

and covered

imprisoned and preserved

to hold life tranquil

and one day

pressing forward

it will crack.

Half the Water

In the black sky

was a black eye

that was white

as snow and death

pealing before me

like a boiled egg

unraveling

feathers and glimmering

star dust–

Quickly does a tear drop

with reflections of our faces

humanity, at last

at fate–the unquenchable

the unthinkable

speaking their last words

like a fallen star–

We forget the galaxies

for they knew us

We love ourselves

for we knew us–

As the silent limbo

of this grey life

takes us

deep

into cold air

of an endless night

breathing a final breath

ever so fresh.

 

Where Was I Going

I looked high up

and saw a sky,

maybe a marking

but it was blue, and grey

possibly clouds

or not

or whatnot

filled with scribbled letters

and soft rice

that looked like an eye

but it really was the sun

gold and yellow

staring right down on me

blinding me

in a forest of fresh bamboo

green bamboo in every direction

wild and tall bamboo

with a blank map

in front of me

and one day

I’ll wake up

not from the sun,

but from the moon

because who knows

trees like to lose their leaves

anyway,

and its not like a red banner

hangs behind me

but in front

like blocks of concrete

soft like rice, wrapped in paper

just in time to finish

a warm meal

that was obviously cold

but warm at heart

and now I am alone

but never alone

walking down a street

of people looking down on me

arms resting outside

their confused windows

and the world tells me

no, it shouts

and whispers

who I am

or who I should be

even though

I’m none of those things

I’m me

me

the undefinable definable

and definable undefinable

and though I chew on bamboo

I don’t care

because it’s going to rain soon

and I could use the time

to face my fears

or

whatever you call it

no one likes rain in the cold

but I do

when I’m not listening

to the world

or the map

or me.

 

Open Your Eyes

There is a place of slumber

a music beyond all of us

captivated

and washed

into a spiraling well

one of hopes and dreams

made of stone blocks

before our time

and for the love of all peace

we are far from it

but awake

in the night

of our intriguing soul

that beckons us

and quenches

the thirsty mountains

clothed

in the mist and white fog

and we are but small shadows

looking up into the blue horizon

where the sun exists

though we do not see it

where the sun loves us

and do not feel it

but we know

it is there

for we have waited for it

we sat down on mossy grass

and told stories

and tales

sharing laughter

then somber silence

in that unbreakable meeting

quieting our thoughts

for in us

we see the threads unravel

and people

sailing far and wide

into a distant memory

where all we hold

is the moon

in our sleep

a nostalgic self carries us

and we do not ask questions

nor why it matters

that moon is in shards

distorted beautifully

on water

opaque

and we look down to ourselves

to see what we once were

and guess

what we are to be

for to dream dreams is a dream

and living life is the reality

or so

we say to ourselves

in the waking life.

Here Comes October

It, the thing,

approaches us all

yet we try to forget “it”

“The Death”

knocking at our doors–

To talk of it

is chilling

to our bones

because we grow colder,

and cold is pain

it always has been

and somehow we lost

that memory–

But we try, and try

to ignore… “it”

(we will call the thing)

with happiness

with poppies in our thoughts

with the sweet smell

of spiced coffee

and autumn leaves–

Then it comes to us

a soft whisper

in the breeze,

“this is all temporary”

none of “this”

last forever

but we walk, and walk

with one leg to another

to our jobs

to our slave boxes

to our homes

to our distractions

to our one last beer

to our high-rise efforts

to our computers

to our smartphones

to envy’s demise,

a parade of people

we have never met

and finally,

to our forgetfulness

for ignorance

has always been bliss

yet that burgundy leaf

had never looked better

for love itself

was truly alive,

to die is bliss

but to live is joy–

A man is not a skull

nor is he merely flesh

but he is a story

with a beginning

and end

an untold one

that lasts forever.

Lemonwood

My mustard yellow sweater

is grown into the blue sky

as a blossom of heat

rests over a melted pot

overlooking fields

where I sip my green tea

in a tiny, wooden cup-

I sit on my knees

open face to see

a cloud move by

like a flame

far above without border

in the midst of falling leaves

dead in the yellows, oranges

and the reds-

Everything is finally free,

but here I am

a voice

gentle, like a sleeping giant

while every ear

is missing

resisting every smile

in-between.

Catalyst Bloom

Beyond it is obtainable
 
no, you aren’t selfish
 
but true to yourself
 
for all gold that glimmers
 
is not a yellow leaf
 
nor is it made in fire–
 
and the fragile diamonds
 
covering our leather skin
 
does not bring a smile
 
for smiles have never been
 
everlasting
 
with the exception of one
 
on the other side
 
of the sliding glass door
 
but no ever dared to try it
 
for the opportunity
 
never arrived,
 
and we are but moleskins
 
writing down depths
 
of what we can grasp–
 
here I watch the orange leaves
 
fall from your mother and father’s
 
table
 
they cover your white cloth
 
and perfume
 
like the generations of before
 
and still, an opportunity
 
never arrived,
 
so instead at my hour
 
I knock on opportunity’s
 
door
 
to find nothing inside
 
except for my reflection
 
blooming without me knowing
 
and a napkin crumbled
 
in my hand like
 
a leaf that crunches
 
like burnt paper.