River Of Mind
I don’t really care

where the river comes from,
what beautiful or ugly currents sweep it along,

or how many years or places it winds through.

I don’t really care
where the river goes,
how many dear ones will scatter petals above
or how many grouches work to make it turbid.

When the river comes, it comes;

when the river goes, it goes.

All I do is sit on the high bank
watching all my troubles, ignorance and lust being swept away,
surging forward, without uttering a word.

Watch

Always watching
always being watched.

Orbiting

too many colorful balloons
too much dream debris.

Hush now
close your eyes
lie down in the fields
and watch your fog recede.

How about you?

Today I trekked in the woods,

ate some of your favorite berries
the breeze rolling by like little waves.

Pausing, dazed, In front of our friends’ nest
the two birds somehow took leave.

The creek beckoned me for a foot-bath
the water having an autumn feel.

Late at night tired
hearing raindrops falling off a lotus leaf.

How about you?

Maybe

Stars glimmering in a stream,

moon flickering on a far  mountain,

bamboo leaves rustling in dogs’ barking,

withered vines reaching out,

endlessly, a road stretching.

On a blue path of flagstone,

petals chasing a puff of breeze,

she all in grey, holding her alms,   

knocking on doors, begging in shadows.

That person might be me.

There I may have been.

Transfer

Amid my forlornness

silently, a spirit strides over,

a half smile of mercy on his lips,

a glare of lust in his eyes.

A large sack carried on his back

In which many gifts brought over.

But I know

in the sack is nothing but more sorrow -

the sorrow of the whole world,

which he intends to transfer

onto my shoulders.

Patience
I repeat it again:
Yes, dear friend,
don’t despair
no matter what.

Even if you are a late autumn date-tree,
deprived of all your wealth,
your last leaf
ripped off by merciless gusts,
your pure naive face,
disfigured by life’s knife.

Yes, even if you have lost everything
you still have something -

much love, much hope.
They are not idle in the hidden world,
but have married, given birth to many star like sprouts.

Do nothing but give them a little time, 

a little patience, so their offspring

can solemnly step into the visible world

in tender green form.

Compare

A little boy whispering to his mother:

“What do poets do anyway?”

“Oh, honey, they practically do nothing.”

“Like the squirrels in our front yard?”

“Oh, honey, poets aren’t as amusing to watch, though both of them are content to work for peanuts.”

The Robin In My Garage
Morning, I went to visit the robin in my garage.
With an air of dignity,

she sits on her eggs,
her bashful eyes, peering at me.

Noon, I went to visit the robin in my garage.
With a smile of joy

she sits on her eggs,
her tender eyes,  glancing at me.

Evening, I went to visit the robin in my garage.
With a wistful face,

she sits in her nest,
her alert eyes, watching me.

Ah! Suddenly a black shadow,

diving down like a flash,
kissed the robin with a red worm!
Slowly and gracefully, she turned around, spat it into a tiny mouth that
just learned to open.

A Little flower

A little flower

opens in the wilderness.

Around her is nothing

but a few trees,
several stones,
and some sparse grass.

Before a gentle breeze
she bows in reverence;
while the sun sneaks up
she contemplates her own breath.

She seeks nothing nor desires anything.
The expression on her face
resembles the last philosopher

on this lonely Earth.

Extravagant Hope

Solitude, you're in a trance again,

sitting under the lamp, furrowing your brows,

like a young lady, graceful and enigmatic.

Who are you waiting for?

The street lights are dimming,

shadows no longer swaying on ice,

those expected have arrived -

they were but a few regulars -

poetry, evening breeze, aroma of chrysanthemum, as well as some tiny fireflies.

Sleep, Solitude,

no more waiting.

Heavy footsteps echo in the distance,

while groups of people traversing ruins.

They will never cast a glance at the light

flickering in your window.

Dialogue

In the wilderness, clouds scattering and dispersing.
No one beside me
but a little flower.

"O, Flower, why don’t you go to a park where surely you will be pitied and loved? "

"Ah, no, I enjoy being here,
watching the ocean like sky and
sheep like clouds.
You? Why don’t you go downtown
where it’s bound to be more fun? "

"I have no wish to go,
for my dream is being a lonely poet. "

"Me too,
for I dreamed to inspire a poet. "

I Want To Change My Way of Living

I want to change my way of living.
I want to turn off all sounds -
computer, television, telephone.
I'll dig out the bag of seeds hidden in a corner of my house,

cultivate a plot in the wilderness,

carefully aerate, fertilize, and then plant in black earth.
I’ll water them, watch them sprout, and shoot up,
then squat beside my new crops,

chatting with them like a friend.

I want to change my way of living.
I want to stay away from people,
strangers or familiar.
I’ll build a hut in the woods,
wander the trails,
listen to pine-whispers’ chorus like waves.
I’ll stalk owls to where they live,

and learn to sing like the trees and birds.

I’ll humbly salute all passersby,
including ant and butterfly.

I want to change my way of living.
I want to escape my work,
trivial or important.
I’ll do nothing but sit patiently until dark, when all are asleep,

and the moon slowly rises.

I’ll watch it climb the tallest tree.

I’ll gaze at the night sky in awe, and

cry bravely and laugh heartily, 
until my face is a
pure luminous moon,
and my heart – immense and undisturbed -

 blends into the dark cosmos.

A Sleeping Buddha On the Mountain

A sleeping Buddha on the mountain
lies across the topmost peaks.

Like a creek, time trickles on him,
sunrise glints on his belly

rising and falling.

A prayer from the valley floor
takes off from a girl's heart.
Space burns around it like incense,
sunset glimmers on the blue mist
mounting unhurriedly.

Two Wild Ducks

A clear sky after long rain,
by a puddle two wild ducks cling -
one light brown, one dark green,
one  quiet, one chattering,
one serious, one smirking,
one searching for bugs, 

one pondering the horizon,
one splashed, one pecking at the other's feather,
one yin, one yang.

Lighthouse

I wanted to be a poet

so when I was young

my father handed me a blue hat,

asking me to go find a house just for myself.

Years later

my home was found on a lonely isle -

a tiny island,

where my sole companions were

a large-eyed deer

and a lighthouse –

its tower white, its peak red -

barely big enough for me and my blue hat.

When fog arises,

all things and souls are in mist,

in my watch-room I’ll stand, wearing my blue hat;

I’ll turn on all my lights

so as to be seen by the whole world,

along with my waving hat.

Old I will grow in my lighthouse,

happy I will be in my lighthouse.

I’ll keep feeding the large-eyed deer,

I’ll take good care of my blue hat.

If one day,

the light is out in my tower,

please do not be sad or

come seeking me out,

for it is likely

I’m off to another lighthouse

with my blue hat.

MEDITATION

He has been sitting there for a while.

He is doing something

though it looks like nothing.
With squinted eyes, he watches
how each sentiment -
love, sorrow, anger, joy, despair
little by little
occupies his mind
devours his liver
floods his lungs
invades his spleen
destroys his kidneys
until in the very end
nothing is left
but a pile of 

cold dust.

When writing poetry

Yes, for me
writing poetry
is meditating.
You see, I am totally at ease:
a blanket wrapped around my knees,
wearing comfy gear.
I have no need to act,

and yesterday and tomorrow
are like the teacup
placed by my side.

Of course, I have regrets

for my illusions are numerous.
Yet when writing poetry,
my focus is only on the moment, 

and the words jumping out of my soul
form into tiny mirrors reflecting me,
until my strained breath chased by life
becomes relaxed and brave

like an eagle circling the blue sky.

Stir
Still early, too soon for me to sleep.
It has nothing to do with the last swallow not yet having returned

to her nest,
nor with the blue mountains on the other side, awaiting.
In fact, I have been long tired and wishing for a good rest,
but I have my preoccupation:
when my last garment is stripped off,

In front of  night’s eyes, innocent like a child,
my long-worn masks will fall off

causing a ruckus.

Distance

Yes, I can stand even a little further away – this way is best,
for if too close, what they see is not myself
but the shell enveloping my essence.

Yes, I can speak even a little quieter –

this way is best,
for if too loud, what they hear is not myself

 but the words not put into my poem.

Where did the crows go?

Where did the crows go?

Usually at least ten of them

perch on the withered branches

and yet now none.

With disdain they looked upon our glazed faces

with an air, as if they knew some secret we know not.

They woke us from idle sleep

seemingly despising our way of mucking-about.

If for a conference they are off

I suspect no good news for us

not when done so sneakily

leaving deadly quiet in broad day-light.

Still Or Not Still?

The leaf is still -
riding a lush bough
quietly, for many days.
But its heart is restless,
knowing autumn is on its way.

The seagull is not still -

soaring over infinite ocean

bustling, for many days.

But its heart is voiceless
for ebb and flow

disturbs him no more.

Reunion

Why should I be melancholy,
even if you depart for the other side of the clouds and never return?

I believe,
sooner or later 
we will be ascending the steps of

another mountain.

By then we may have another face, another name,
we will wear different clothes,

carrying an odd-looking rucksack.
But I believe -
a glimpse between our souls,
a mere glimpse,
will reunite us.

Parting

Well, stop your steps now, my friend.
You have walked me far enough.
Regardless how long the path is,

inevitably parting will take place.

You see, the dog-tail grass
is tapping its home door;
the rowdy cicadas
have returned to their camps.

Ok, Ok,

stop your steps now, my friend.

The rest of the journey will be on my own.

I know you worry
a woman like me, trekking all alone,
on such a mountainous trail.
Yet winding and thorny,

is my destined path.

Please return home, my love.
In solitary days
your tenderness will be recalled.

Ah! 
When waiting on cool autumn nights,
do wrap something warm on your bare shoulders.

Dedication
What shall I dedicate to you, my dear?
My sun is setting, and my stars are not yet rising;
my garden has faded, and the new leaves have not shown a trace;
my harp is broken, 

and the new strings have not been put in place;
my bees were set free,

and no news is heard.

Ah, love!
What shall I dedicate to you?
You have all my devotion
yet sadly I am far from harvest!

In fact
In fact, the person in the mirror is
only a fraction of you
- the part you are willing to show.

You are much larger and deeper than that,

but you fear admitting it.

In fact, the person you convey is
only a fraction of you
- the part you copy from others.
You never fully express your real self,

but you fear admitting it.

In fact, you are more perfect than a rose,
you can soar like a bird,
and you will never depart from the world,
for He who gave you eternal life
will carry you on His timeless shoulders,

but you fear admitting it.

Hiding

She seems an ordinary woman -
no smooth hair nor swaying waist,
no plump breasts nor slender legs.

Nor are her facial features distinctive,
as fine wrinkles and freckles encroach.

She loathes to do trivial things,
not to mention housewife chores.
minimal cleaning and cooking she muddles through;

shopping she deems inconsequential.

What other women possess she has not.

What other women know she knows not.

Her only obsession is writing poetry
but this should be regarded as another of her weaknesses.

When all consider her  the most common,
only one person, solely one single

person in the world,

has cunningly discovered

that all her beauty is hidden

in her eyes.

I am sure

I am sure
a part of me is missing
- not a very noticeable part.
I know not where it was lost -
On a dusty snowflake?
In a muddy brook?
On a bustling street?
Or in a boisterous railway station?
Anything is possible.

I am sure
a part of me is missing
- a very light and subtle part.
I know not where it can be reclaimed -
from a lilywhite snowflake?
Or a blue mountain creek?
Or a solitary azalea field?
Or following a birds twittering call?
Anything is possible.

World, What Are You Due?

World, what are you due?
Why make me write poetry,
while others partake in wild parties,

And I drift along on seashore?

Those wearing sunglasses, speed away in their sport cars, splashing mud on me, along with their mockery.

Even a gaggle of white geese, heading out of the hamlet for food,

distain to share my path.

World, what are you due?
Why did you chase me onto

such a confined route?

You expect me to be a bee
busy toiling in your garden.
Do you expect my sufferings
will turn into honey?
You want me to be a spider,
weaving webs on dark doors.
Will my melancholies
catch something in the end?

World, what are you due?
Ruthlessly, you watch the thorns of poems pricking my anxious nightingale heart. 

Do you actually expect

my blood will dye red

a white rose?

AWorld Without You

A world without you,
yes, the earth will still rotate,
the sun will continue to rise in the east.

A world without you,
streets will be as boisterous,
chattering will be as alive.
None will notice what is missing,
or think anything is wrong.

A world without you,
ah, one single person,
harbored in a corner of the world

will surely notice it:
his life will be total chaos,
his flowers will all wither,
the birds will take off  from his yard,

he will not know how to rotate in tune with the earth,
he will wait for the sun to rise in the west.

Thus, just for this single person,
you came to this world.

Contrast

A bird named Joy

gracefully hops onto my bough,
sprinkling light and dew,

fluttering its wings, and takes off,

Regardless of my eager call,

it looks back not.

A worm called Sorrow
clumsily clambers into my heart.
It laughs not, hops not, chirps not
but soundlessly glares at me from a dead leaf,
heedless of my anxious shooing,

it budges not.

Hypnosis Sit, stand, cry, laugh, obey, rebel, excel, drift along, you assume you are free, to do whatever you please, and all your emotions are under your charge. You see not the pair of eyes amid dense fog taking over your life wearing a quiet sneer since the very moment of your birth. No need to lift a finger, or give any orders, He has you completely hypnotized -  the freedom advocate.

Three Lives

What I am doing
is not for the past,
for the past river has long dried out, and what left on its bed
is but sun exposed memories.

What I am doing
is not for today,
for today is but a towering peak
and when harassed by cold gusts,
even birds hesitate to nest.

All I am doing
is only for tomorrow.
For tomorrow,
I cultivate  the wilderness.
The eruption of my lava 

will burn away my weeds of debt;
the forged hammer will

shatter my rock solid shackles.
Thus I will be truly free,
embracing birds and gurgling streams,
and vine mantled slopes.

Then I will shoulder my hoe 

and whistle all the way home.

Proof

O, Lord, You can cover me with dirt,
or conceal me in darkness,
or abduct me with wind,
or drown me in a whirlpool.
In front of you,
I am but a docile lamb.

One dark night,
when hearing your call,
I will follow you without a word,

leaving behind all my belongings.

O, Lord,
When I ebb away with you, holding your sleeve,
please do let me leave one tiny thing behind -
a light, a footprint,
a word, an aroma,
or even a heartfelt chortle.

Do let me leave a little trace,
as a proof to my descendants  -

what an intensive life  

I have lived.

Choice One night many years ago You carried me into this world, wrapping me with starlight, cradling me in moonlight, rustling leaves singing my first lullaby. With me in your arms, we passed through towns and hamlets. You intended to give me a cozy home, but each time I shook my head: "No, not here! '" Oh, not there either! " Finally, on a peaceful shore I was put where You transformed into billows, caressing me with your foam and salt. Thus I became a poet, looking up at You all my life, singing and contemplating. Since then I’ve had abundant freedom and mirth, but also an equal amount of solitude.

If A Poet, Stand Out!

In sweet dreams on cold nights,
mercilessly You push me awake:
“If a poet, stand out!
 
Bleary-eyed I mutter,
“Ah, Lord! I am not yet a poet!
Nor are any of my family members!
I am over forty years old;
if a poet is not a disgrace,
she is at least naïve. ”
 
In the clamor of merrymaking,

You prod me on the shoulder:
“If a poet, stand out!”

“Ah, Lord, why make me a poet?
Look how much fun others are having!
And me, having to self-publish my poems that took me years to write,

leaving me finally broke!”
 
Facing power and vanity fair,
You give me a kick:
“If a poet, stand out!”

“Ah, Lord, since you want me to be a poet,
why let me born into an anti-poetry epoch?

Look how successful and scornful they are,

saying I’m too worthless to polish their shoes!”
 

In shadows of flowers and moonlit nights,
You give me a scowling look:
“If a poet, stand out!
Purposefully I brought you into this wrong period,
so you suffer.
I need you to be the phoenix in flames,
or the cuckoo crying blood.
And when all flowers are dying,
all birds are silent,
all voices are speechless,
I want you, my last disciple,
to blossom for those flowers,
to sing for those birds,
to speak for the voiceless.
I want you, my messenger,
with your songs to praise

the divine world

and shatter the humans’ nests

that serve as their prison! ”

Who do you think you are?

“Who do you think you are,
claiming dogs have equal dignity to humans,
and a piece of gravel is just as magnificent as the sun?

Who do you think you are,
holding your head high in front of the mighty?

Why not hurry to bow and carry their handbags?

Who do you think you are,
asserting that money is not to blame, but the way it is earned and spent,

and that conscience and integrity are priceless?

Who do you think you are,
choosing a winding path rather than a shortcut,
and refusing to have a mistress?

Who do you think you are?
demanding a harmonious heart before a harmonious society,
and transforming oneself before modifying others?


Who do you think you are,
professing a horn shaped flower yourself,
and your ideals can still be heard through silence?

Who do you think you are,
affirming that in a jammed cell
your heart still travels the cosmos?

 Who do you think you are,
declaring that thousands of years of tradition shall be replaced by: Do unto others as you would have them do unto you?

Who do you think you are,
at such a young age, yet already so unruly and arrogant?
How did your parents bring you up?

What? No longer young? Already turned forty?
Ah, in that case, why still so ignorant?
What’s wrong with you, you idiot?

Who do you think you are,
Trying to be a black sheep, a heartless wolf,
or a rat dropping that spoils a pot of soup?

Who do you think you are?
Can’t you simply enjoy your comfort and refrain from unsettling comments?”

“Ah, sir,
I’m nobody,

a humble poet.”

Change of Topic

Hey， the one called poet!

Don’t be silly!

Now it’s time to talk about nonsense

So not to hurt anyone’s feelings.

Gibran, Tagore, Baudelaire,

Who are those guys? Or who cares?

Let’s chat about nonsense:

Hockey, weather, higher priced carrots, newest I-pads, the strange old fellow on the other side of the street, the Oscar Academy, or even your breakfast…

Any nonsense, but nothing about yourself！

Besides, what’s the point of chatting about oneself,

since the mention of fortunes in your life

will sound like showing-off,

and the sharing of your personal troubles

will force others to be free psychiatrists?

Let’s talk about nonsense,

if the intention is to please your friends

in a fun and cool ambience,

put aside poetry, dreams, sufferings and truth.

Wake up, we are in the 21st century!

Talking about nonsense

will make you fit in, humble, gentle and civil.

And if your bolognas can make all giggle,

wow, even Bill Gates will be jealous!

Rose, Rose!

Rose, Rose!
The only one in my yard
watches me day and night.

Spring, summer and fall

on my back lingers her alert eyes,
as if I were a rose

planted by herself.

Rose, Rose!
The only one in my yard

struck by a freezing autumn storm!

Her blood-red petals scatter around,

her frail body stooping to the ground.

Before breathing her last,

Faintly she whispers in my ear,
"Ah, darling! The autumn wind caused my fate. But you, what has struck you making you wither? "

Oblivion

Snow blackened with dirt,

wild roses all wilted,

wheel and foot marks erased by wind -

all become the same as yesterday,

perhaps even worse,

as if your existence never made a difference.

Only on a moonless night

when stars in sound sleep

by a reaped field I stood,

hearing a cricket

that sounded so much like your chortle.

Genies

Each of them held a precious bottle,

from which a genie condensed.

Ah! Not only one! But two -

one on the left, blue-bearded,

the other on the right, purple haired.

Before genies’ speech,

the two people blurted out:

Of course! Three wishes shall be granted first!

Her voice firmly heard:

I want a cute puppy,

lots of sparkling lollipops,

and also, a rainbow crayon that  never shortens,

so I can write and paint

to my content.

He solemnly declared:

I want the puppy only listen to my commands,

and the candy jar only in my reach,

I also demand a magic brush!

Ha! Whoever dares to make me ugly with her pictures,

the brush will erase them automatically!

The two of them squabbled and  argued,

while two genies winked and grimaced.

Their mother came, pushing the two into the school bus,

and then, like the two genies, she winked, mercilessly throwing their two empty juice bottles

into a recycling bin.

Temple of Heart

This is my hut -

the temple of my heart.

Now the window is open,

would you  like to take a peep

at all my treasures?

What’s flower scented?

Oh, what else could it be besides my poems?

All my hopes and joys

are planted inside.

What’s the twittering tiny thing?

That is a hummingbird, yellow-beaked

shadowing me since my birth.

What’s the sparkling thing?

Oh, it’s a fire

in which flames are jumping high,

and before which I shiver myself warm when the world is subzero.

This is my hut -

the temple of my heart.

Now it’s dark, time to close up

lest my treasures

are stolen by wind.

Bridge

Oh, people!

I've heard your earnest call!

Gold, wine, beauty, sword ...

are my nicknames,

Though in fact, "pleasure"

is my official name.

No need to wave on tiptoe,

or toast me from a distance,

I'm already coming towards you.

Nevertheless,

my poor fellow,

to greet my arrival,

please build a bridge beforehand

- one large enough for two side by side,

for the one coming along is my companion,

named Misfortunate.

The Lady in a Sari

It was raining;

I had my umbrella,

as did she.

On a narrow path

We met by chance.

Her pink sari glistening like dewdrops;

her white scarf shimmering like mellow ripples;

her smile, familiar like the red dragonfly in my dreams.

I froze for a moment;

as did she,

and then, we headed in opposite directions.

As she turned away,

her scarf brushed my shoulder -

sending me staggering with mirth.

Abruptly I understood,

and went after her,

but my hastened steps

were unable to keep pace.

In the boundless rain,

only her pink sari.

Late Night Visit

Put on your slippers,

bring along your puppy

and your candlestick,

come downstairs, please.

Down here am I,

knocking on your door late at night.

When you peek outside

you’ll see only the dark shroud of night,

please do not be amazed,

or close the door on me.

It's me,

the one with whom you were most  intimate,

standing in front of your candlelight,

wearing your favored white dress.

My black hair hanging loose on my waist,

like the first night we met

by the bridge where gardenia blossomed.

You cannot see me right now,

but it shouldn’t matter.

Your candle sees me, as does our dog.

And the gardenia aroma coming along with me

will release your accumulated tears,  

while in the mean time,

my name you’ll murmur out,

softly, repeatedly.

Woodpecker Versus A Poet

Hey, Woodpecker,

Why the heck are you so loud,

as if I knew not your whereabouts?

Are you making a racket

solely to break the woods’ solitude?

What do you mean you’re lonely?

Those snails and squirrels,

aren’t they watching your pranks?

The purple feathered bird,

wasn’t he playing with you yesterday?

Ah, Woodpecker!

Most lonely is my poetry,

struggling her whole life in a dry riverbed,

and then in an image of dewed rose  

illuminating the dim forest.

But the cold-hearted people,

totally ignored her, and trampled over her, 

wearing contemptuous sneers.

Stars

Each dewdrop rolling off a flower,

is a star;

each spindrift rocking a boat back to port,

is a star;

each raindrop in a desert

is a star

each tear shed for love

is a star.

Each evening, these stars bustling around in a long queue, waiting for the dark robed one,

carefully hanging them

on the arch of night sky -

to dry out.

Sunrise Watchers

To  watch the sunrise together had been our rendezvous,

and yet our dream had stumbled in cycles of life –

only after many rebirths

finally reunion came upon us.

The orange flame

combusted heaven and earth,

as it did to us.

For a split second

only two small voices were resonating in the cosmos –

those of our heartbeats -

yours slow,

mine fast.

Although you and  I were not holding hands,

but had to lean to see the other across the sea waters,

in blurring tears

we managed to nod, smile, and recognize each other -

you, a solitary blue whale breaching in the Arctic Ocean,

and me solitary, sitting on the deck.

Obsession

They love me crazily

not because I am beautiful；

they gaze at me ardently

despite I’m infamous;

they kiss me compassionately

even if my lips are ice-cold;

they chase me like a Saint,

knowing only lovers’ tears and relatives’ hatred await them at the marathon’s end.

Jealously, they watch me being passed along like a torch;

alertly, they patrol my walls throughout night;

regardless of my infidelity

they grab my feet, unwilling to let go.

Ah, my wishful players!

How I pity you being dragged away by my intimate partners -

Heart disease, terminal illness and madness - to a spot where my grace shall never be seen again.

Needless to say,

you all know who I am -

I’m money -

though I’m worthless.

Enemy

Barely did I jump onto my horse

behind me chased his fatwa;

with my heart of a child I hurried along,

arrows of sorrow he launched.

When I was lost,

he cornered me where I loathed most -

a herd of meek sheep grazing -

no voices, no thoughts.

When I fell in love

he stepped in again,

making me wander listlessly

between love and lust.

With all my weapons I resisted him -

dreams, youth and conscience

but he fought back with his sophisticated arms – money, fame and pleasure.

I used poetry to shield my chest

but he kicked my feet with taunt.

Finally, I pulled out my trump card – a smile

he then resorted to his deadly killer – illness.

The very moment the candle of my life snuffs out

our bloody savage war

finally comes to an end.

Sea-kids

We were originally sea-kids -

you, with the face of a mermaid,

and cascading hair;

me,  with shark’s bravery

and dolphin’s tenderness.

On a small island,

the spotted-tailed whale

brought us for a stroll.

He said he’d come back for us

after eating three large pomegranates.

We played and waited

till into sweet dreams we drifted

and then wind blew you  to the shore

and a group of naughty beavers,

stole me to hang on their shingles.

We were originally sea-kids -

 with ocean like innocence

and shell-like melancholy.

Thousands of miles away,

on crests of surging spindrifts

we sing songs only known to ourselves, and make signals only we understand.

We are waiting for

the greedy spotted-tailed whale

to quickly gulp down his nasty three pomegranates

and then carry us 

straight back home.

Silly or not

Forget her, along with the moon on that night;

forget her, together with the dragonfly on her shoulder;

forget her, including the shells and fossils picked by you together;

forget her, listen no more to her chortle in the wind.

Am I silly or not?

Why ask you to forget her

as if I knew not

what should be forgotten is precisely

what sneaks in your dreams first, barefoot?

It is just like the stars in the nightly sky.

Ah, merely one glimpse from your window

is enough to make you wistful forever,

and nostalgic for yonder.

Bewilderment

In darkness, someone was calling;

In a gentle breeze, I was guided by a dream.

Remember or not

our rendezvous was to dance here tonight

and our signal - three calls of coo-coo?

Now, the fog lifted,

glade cleared,

even your dancing-shoes were brought over,

along with spring water and black berries that were your favorites.

The moon came as a guest -

all is ready to go.

Three calls of coo-coo were made,

but only quietness surrounded.

Another three calls

only to see my lonely shadow swaying in the wind.

Ah, my dear!

Did I mistake our password

or have you forgotten me altogether?

On the Other Side of the Horizon

On the other side of the horizon

all my days line up,

patiently and orderly.

Every morning

still bleary-eyed,

before I make a call

to the other side of the horizon,

a new day, together with dawn,

skips to my face.

If one day

despite my earnest call,

no movement is heard

from the other side of the horizon,

I will bid farewell to the bird on the window sill,

then, trudging under yesterdays’ shadows,

quietly I disappear

on the other side of the horizon.

The world is a super rollercoaster

The world is a super rollercoaster

rising and dropping rapidly;

it seems, except for me,

all scream at top voices

appreciating its novelty and excitement.

For not sharing its enthrallment

the world dumps me out

at its moment of deceleration

when I forgot to grasp tight.

So until now

I'm still here on the foot of the mountain

writing my poems.

Denial

Outside the window who is sighing?

That mustn’t be you,

it must be a babbling brook.

In deep night, who is gently tapping the door?

That mustn’t be you,

it must be the fresh snow.

On the wall whose long slender shadow is cast?

That mustn’t be you,

it must be a tree late returning home.

On top of the fence who left a bouquet of wild flowers?

That mustn’t be you,

it must be a coquettish peacock.

In my heart whose crystal bright pupils are flicking?

That mustn’t be you,

it must be a child I know not.

I am willing

With you I am willing to crawl on the rooftop.

You say that’s where eleven wild swans with golden crowns

love to gaze at the stars and the moon.

With you I am willing to walk the woods.

You say that’s where Grandma and Little Red Riding Hood came back to life.

With you I am willing to venture into the dark cave.

You say that’s where Tom Sawyer

hid all his treasures.

With you I am willing to climb the mountain trail.

You say the long, narrow stairs will lead to the secret entrance to Alice’s Wonderland.

With you I am willing to stroll the other side of the road.

You say that’s where a man called Aladdin, with his magic lamp,

awaits to bless our everlasting love.

Blue Dragonfly

Hey, hold on, Blue Dragonfly!

I knew you,

when did you stop by here?

After all these thirty years

why haven’t you changed a bit?

Remember not the little girl 30 years ago

with long skinny braids?

On top of the haystack she hid and read "Heidi",

coveting white goat-milk and freshly baked bread

and then fell asleep dreaming about the Alps, turning a deaf ear to your deliberate  noise.

Remember what happened afterwards?

The girl, off the haystack was dragged by her mother and thrown into history and multiplication tables.

How about you?

Did your mother also find you?

Or did you fly to the Alps all by yourself to savor goat-milk?

Otherwise why could the girl find you no more?

Ah, Blue Dragonfly!

After these thirty years,

why do you still look naïve like Heidi?

And the familiar girl hiding on the haystack,

wherefore so unrecognizable

either by you or myself?

Where did you go, Old Friend?

Where did you go, Old Friend?

Didn’t we chat before your cabin just a day ago?

Isn’t your half-written poem

lying on the rock in the sun?

In your empty teacup crawled a cricket,

and when you bent over to converse with it

I began to play my guitar and sing my songs.

You turned to smile at me,

your fresh eyes shone like

flowers holding dew.

Where’re you now?

Why no trace in the entire universe?

Before your hut stood straight the pine,

and blankly the cricket stuck on the cup, awaits your response.

And you? Where did you go?

Why even my guitar, my songs or the low-swirling draft

fail to lead you home?

Losing and finding

Over the years, I have been doing just losing and finding.

During youth I was luckier -

I lost less but found more.

Once I lost a pebble but found a marble,

a few seeds but found a handful of nuts,

a few tears but much happiness!

One day, I lost a paper boat by the creek

but found a cute homeless cat!

No idea when things started to become odd:

I lost all my youth, but found only wrinkles;

all childhood fantasies but only bread crumbs;

a lot of laughter, but only physical ailments;

and on a starless night,

I lost my whole heart, ah, to find only

my love’s departing silhouette!

Self-portrait

I always gaze at flowers

but never pick them;

I often speak with hummingbirds

and go home with a woodpecker;

I do not drive

but ride a horse called Imagination;

Money I have little.

Books I have mountains of;

Singing and cello are my favorites

but solitude touches me most and keeps me alert;

 Heedlessly, I listen to them

with eyes I speak to them;

Small am I

big is my dream-bag;

Neither a candle nor a match am I

but some fallen leaves

will likely be alighted

by my poetry –

at least I hope.

Dictator

Laugh if he wants you to laugh;

cry if he wants you to cry;

A wave of his sleeve

all colored clouds vanish;

His shadow obscures moonlight

he makes you take shame as a drug;

He forces you to break prayer wheels

and embark on a pilgrimage to his temple;

With a dry cough he brushes off what  happened

all bow to avoid witnessing;

with a grin he claims what did not happen,

everyone nods about its “occurrence”;

A dense fog accompanies him

in which many are lost never to return;

those who remain

are only empty shells.

Eventually wind carries him away

and those who caged themselves up

are not only afraid to come out

but bend down with affection

to his ghost.

and also me.

Brewer

This has been a long brewed wine -

unique in formulation -

all my thoughts and confusion

were mixed inside

plus a little joy for seasoning.

When fermented

I'll toast the hidden You,

swilling the dark red nectar

wiping my lips

striding towards the sunset

disappearing

amid a large glistening vineyard.

Time is a woodpecker

Time is a woodpecker

at the moment of my birth

it crawled upon me

pecking away.

Never does it get tired

or sick;

he hibernates not

let alone migrates.

I can but watch

my youth

like fresh woodchips

making a mess on the ground.

You were a crumbling tree

- To grandmother

You were a crumbling tree

your blossoms long passed

fruit no more yielding.

On your branches life hung too many things,

though weightless they appeared,

increasingly they bent your trunk.

You tried -

even wind incapable of shaking them off.

You were a crumbling tree -

late one night

in a desolate corner

you tiptoed to glance at your distant children

and the departing silhouette of your husband,

and then

soundlessly you collapsed

amid the dim woods.

Yet soon you realized

hanging on your branches were only fallen objects -

things never meant for yourself;

and the real you

like a firefly

took off in the direction

 opposite the dark earth.

The other side of the fog

I met you at twilight

mist slowly rising

and caught a glimpse of the flower-picking you

on the other wide of the brook.

Your crystal laughter

for a whole minute hushed the water

delayed the arrival of night

and stopped my heart.

When I hastened to catch up with you

a dense fog intervened  

screening you away

on the other side.

Despite my search

you were nowhere found.

Now I am but a bird

obstinate and lost,

gazing wistfully at

the other side of the fog.

Greedy child

I have a greedy child inside me

who keeps demanding food.

He sneers at my bread,

he dismisses the milk I offered.

I’ve tried all means to please him

yet his hand still remains extended.

When I simply ignore him

loudly his hungry stomach protests:

Do me a favor, master!

Feed me light, wisdom and bliss!

Thoughts

My thoughts remain

unlike those strange snowflakes

that drifted away to nowhere.

They simply find secret spots to hide -

thoughts of joy in oceans

thought of pain in deserts

some tangled thoughts

in tangled groves.

On solitary nights

when the storm just passed

 they will creep to my bedside

quietly and in pity

gaze at my face

disfigured by life.

Nostalgia

Mid-Autumn Festival night

on a st