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

His father's son
With senses like Waterford
And red ruby heart

--

No summer kisses
Beneath the Emerald Isle
She waits patiently

--

Autumn almost here
So distant a time since last
So distant the space

--

August 2, 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

last night's dal

last night's dal
predawn breakfast
ciabatta cooling

so hard to send
smells in words
across the sea

17 march 2015

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)

the horse and the rider

This was written with no edits as part of an archetypes and visual imagery exercise in which I selected some Tarot cards and one Archetype card (by Sandra Myss) then used the images as cues with as little left-brain thinking as possible. This was written in about 15 minutes. It is interesting what still came out. Or maybe it isn't surprising.

--

the horse and the rider

trusting fate will come to them

as one or one as two

or two becoming one

with the innocence and trust of a child

of a newborn not yet with knowledge

not yet holding the power of choice

the power of choosing

one path leaves wreckage in its trail

another leaves seeds of life to grow

is it like the trust of the mother and her child

does she know that the child

could be the knight

could be the soldier

or the poet

or warrior monk

could she know that the child

could have the power to create

the power to destroy

the power to make others laugh

the power to make multitudes cry in sorrow

is the sorrow a thing of invention

is it a thing of creation

just as she created the child

or is it a mirror of herself

is the child to be the knight to fight all her dragons

and shed the blood of enemies

or is the child just a mirror of a self

  she would rather not see

  but knows in her heart she is a part of

(February 18, 2015)

Murmurs

Starkness of skyStarlings and murmursScotland awaits
9 February 2015

Maestoso

Brahm's "Maestoso" in the hands of Grimaud
Drift down in sheets against a Hebridean sky.

Sudden warm breath above a cold swaying sea
Impinges a moment's annoyance; violation,

Daring to slip a feather onto stony anvil;
Her fingers graze across a sandpapery mane

Seeping her softness into the saline crust
Of the sepulchre of the equine malcontent.

7 February, 2015

*"Maestoso" is the first movement of Brahm's 1st Piano Concerto. In this case, performed by Helène Grimaud with the Southwest German Radio Symphony Orchestra, Michael Gielen conducting.

Flow

In silence dark masses move;
emotions flow like cooling magma;
like tunneling magma trying to find light;

trying to reach the sky
beneath surging, crashing waves,
violently cooled, subdued by cold;

by metallic brine and cleansing foam
but finding form as steam;
angrily escaping mother's clutch;

ejected into air, seeking darkness again
beyond the blue dome, a frontier to
a still vacuum, one without sound;

the brittle cold of space,
the expanses between celestial bodies,
between stars, galaxies and nebulas;

the closest distance from this state of mind
and an enlightened existence
foregoing circles of cause and effect.

Napoleon's Horses

Like Napoleon's horses in the Russian winter;
He slips and slides across the frozen river
Sensing the waterbed that lies beneath.

The chilly grave that preserves until Spring thaw
When the carcass of his cares will be freed.
Those who drown always keep their last expression;

Those who find the lost lose morsels of their faith
To a desire that only human hearts can dream of;
And only a god's neurosis would consider granting.

He remembers as sounds of brittle crystals cracking
That using one's last moments in prayer is foolhardy.

January 29, 2015

Galloping Fuck

Today's vernacular for Buddhist detachment: I don't give a galloping fuck.

Inner Landscape I

(Writing exercise with theme of Inner Landscape. Written on January 15, 2015)

Motion sunrise
Light streaking by
Bare trees grey bark ochre leaves
Grey clouds blue trying to break through
Words sounds like crow's caw
Sounds noise construction
Annoyance anger trigger
Moments moments stillness
Smoke still air wafting
Smells aroma scents
Taste on tongue bitter sweet where's salt?
Speaking pictures thoughts in words fluid
Water emotions flowing but unchanging
Around stones around people
Past anger now anger still
Still the same roots
Roots deep where is shovel
Give us axes
My sword taken away
I have quills sharper than knives
Ink ink colors sienna
Ochre the earth blood Crimson
Where's parchment the canvas
Where's the water for words
Sailing on to places not here
Not here where I'd rather be
Not this family where I'd rather be
Not this culture
Pass me the flint and steel
Words are tinder
The fires will come
A fire horse descends
A sun on its hooves
To scorch to incinerate
Ashes ashes then feathers come
Not returning to this place
This is no longer my bay city
Distant shores faraway sands await

Late

It is so late and this heart so weary
Blood ties mean nothing
I live on feathers, on wings
I would rather drown as an albatross

A Morning with Theptun Tulku Rinpoche

I had the honor and pleasure of spending the good part of the morning Sunday with a small group of Buddhist practitioners in the presence of Thupten Tulku Rinpoche for a short talk and discussion. I have been around a number of Buddhist leaders of a couple different schools. This time was the first with a Tibetan master and for the first time, I was touched and felt a connection like nothing I had ever experienced.

I don't consider myself a practicing Buddhist and I had no idea what to expect yet his view and lines of thinking made more sense in bringing together a lot of concepts and ideas that reached the core of me. It was strange, very strange, in a good way. I could not have imagined that during his chanting that tears starting flowing and I could tell that they were neither good or bad. It was just being touched.

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