bread and pho

you’ll never get to taste my bread

i’ll never get to use your mixer

just think of the flour fight that might ensue

just think of the cackling of two magpies

i will name a new kind of dough after you

it will have sweetness of dried fruits 

and an over abundance of butter, more butter

we never were shy about fat, you and i

we never believed in limits to our palate

we made others envious of our cuisine

you’ll never eat my pho again

like the time at your parent’s house

we had it stinking of cooking fish sauce

but the kids devoured the food, you smiled

15 february 2015 

a scottish cemetery

in scotland this time of year;

daffodils carpet the cemetery; 

so delicate, swaying gently.

old man’s beard laden the old oaks;

i wandered beneath them on worn paths.

hard to believe i found such tranquility;

hard to accept you are to be in such a place.

incontrovertible that you have left us;

i hope you have found serenity.

it is  eventual the world will hear; i know,

our raucous laughter will sound again, together.

15 february 2015 

parked here

for ingrid

parked here, i sit wondering of you;

two weeks have passed and no word

since you said you’re calling 911.

parked here, sweet crepes and butter

were our morning delight in franz's

since days we could claim youth.

don’t let this be that kind of poem

not yet, not in this way;

so far, those memories

so far, the path still lies ahead.

parked here, i hold a glacier’s tears

millennia have passed, patience, they say

i won’t count future lives until we meet again.

don’t let this be those kinds of words;

people murmur in fear of unknowns

since days we stared at stars.

8 february 2016

mother and i

mother and i,

she tried to be a grower but

didn’t get grandfather’s green thumb;

i did.

i am the grower and

i am the arranger, too;

that is from my father.

i arrange flowers that are words;

words that are images;

it was his gift.

my aunt says it’s apparent.

she says, i’m my father’s son;

my gilded tongue, sometimes forky;

the softened charm that is rarely refused.

not that i share nothing with mother.

mother and i, we can be alike.

we can be removed;

hidden behind the leaves and roses

among the thorns,

too threatening for curious fingers.

i can, not show the softened heart,

keep my shirt sleeves unrolled.

mother and i; we have only one sun

but very different worlds.

lamb

(after Christine Boyka Kluge’s Lamb)

i read a poem about a lamb across the valley,

lost and distant and there was mention

of smoke separating the animal from its viewer.

as i think of it now i imagine myself reflected

in the yellowed worn page of the book;

well handled, well read and perhaps well loved.

i see myself as the lamb turned upside down

on the edge of the paper as if a world inverse

of this more complicated reality outside

of its frail edges. i see myself removed

from myself and wonder of the smoke mentioned

and whether it was me who started the fire;

the fire that would eventually eat up the page

into hungry embers and when the lamb

in the image had burned, would i disappear? 

Haiku

All in order now
A crimson sky above me
Another dawn smile

--

Line of cypresses
Gossamer memories fading
So far away now

August 4, 2015

Kumquat

Kumquat blossoms
Assault my fragile senses
So lovely now parted

Haiku

Tendrils of steam
Bitter on the palate, sweet
Two faces, green tea

Finch on house, fence
Fencing bravely with song
Protecting my heart

Weeping is willow
Washing the faint sorrow
Being across the sea

Pre Dawn

Gentle, birds chirping
Morning dawns my mind stirs
Into scent, green tea

Distance, ocean
Scent of skin on her neck
Lingers, all mine

Contralto singing
Song of recent life echoes
Like tea, all smiles

Melting

I am falling to you

as unique as anything in

this universe could ever be.

Not as one who loves you

for who and what could

with senses; know you,

and not love you?

Who and what who has

stolen a view of the gentle

tremor of your lips; smiling,

could possibly turn away?

Except in bashfulness like

a child caught staring

at his first encounter of beauty

from across the recess yard.

I am unique.

I am unique because as

a snowflake happens only once;

as it crystallizes into complexity,

for only one; once,

to be gazed upon by your eyes;

your deep green eyes.

I shall have the one journey cast from

an ice cloud and fall, and fall, and fall

as I fall into you.

And after we briefly see each other,

after anticipation;

excitement,

and landing on your delicate nose,

knowing I shall disappear.

Giving you only one sensation;

the only one that I am capable of, then

melt into less than a droplet of water

into your snowy skin.

But I will not disappear from this world;

I will be absorbed into your being;

become part of you. And

so fleeting as the moment was;

I am become part of you which

is where I have waited my entire

existence for;
it is, where I belong.

(10 March, 2015)

April 30, 1975

It is the dead who keep
Whispering into our hearts,
Paint visions into our souls.

They know it's their time.
Their time to finally rest,
Leaving the living to struggle on

With the memories of all that
We cannot rightly place to rest.

— Son Dao

(Tomorrow, April 30 will mark 39 years since me and my extended family fled Saigon at the end of the Vietnam-American war).

A Poem for Chino

This Side

There is light. We neither see nor touch it.
In its empty clarities rests
what we touch and see.
I see with my fingertips
what my eyes touch:
                                 shadows, the world.
With shadows I draw worlds,
I scatter worlds with shadows.
I hear light on the other side.

— Octavio Paz

47 Years

(for Tata Chau)

It's been 47 years yet it is yesterday 
For her. A rose in bloom crushed. 
What is left, a stalk of thorny memories. 
She mourns her brother, still. 

I trace remnants of his presence.
A father departed before I arrived
as the quill scratches wandering thoughts 
(as he might have) 
in scattered strokes in each of my sketches.

October 21, 2013

magma

anger is magma
heart is heat
figure the rest

Day of the Dead

I'm having morning tea
With dead people on the patio
Bach is whining but happy
He has lost that damn wig
Wilde makes cheeky pokes
But Cezanne just doesn't get it
Burns is bitching about the rain
Saying isn't this California?
Finally I've had enough and
Serve the bloody mary's so
I can tell them all to shut up

November 1, 2012

Desk-bound

Desk-bound, I am left
To wonder photos from
Other's wandering path
Through verdant forests

October 25, 2012

Blood glory

Crescent moon sets
Where is my nebula in
Its red blood glory?

October 19, 2012

Gingko

Pungent, no putrid
Smell of crushed gingko nuts
Indian summer fades

Darker

Scratching quill on paper
Blood like ink dries darker
More bitter on gritty soil

October 17, 2012

Almost Autumn

My almost Autumn
Killed by Indian Summer
Give me fallen leaves

October 2, 2012