the grass sways,
while skyscrapers stand stiffly:
so impressive, the grass!
Yielding [Senryū]
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Category Archives: poem
Gray Day River [Haiku]
Skirmish Line [Haiku]
rainclouds crawl nearer,
like a battle cruiser
inching towards war.
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In the Shadows [Haiku]
Morning Glories sit,
coolly, in the shadow of
Mexican Sunflowers.
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“Grass of the Ancient Plains” by Bai Juyi [w/ Audio]
Lush grass covers the plains.
One year it withers; the next, it thrives.
Wildfires burn, but not to eradication.
With Spring winds, it's rejuvenated.
Its aroma floats in to subdue derelict paths.
Vivid green overtakes the ghost town.
I say farewell to departing friends
as intense feeling swells within.
In Chinese [Simplified]:
离离原上草 一岁一枯荣
野火烧不尽 春风吹又生
远芳侵古道 晴翠接荒城
又送王孙去 萋萋满别情
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Sunken Forest [Haiku]
white pillars, once trees,
stand above the water:
record of what was.
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“Trees” by Joyce Kilmer [w/ Audio]
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the earth's sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose busom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
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Cormorant Stitching [Haiku]
a cormorant weaves
into and over water:
no trace but ripples.
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Introduction to Myth Making [Free Verse]
From the hilltop,
one can watch nature reclaim:
green grows up the glass,
tufts sprout from each crevice
and the man-made world is crevice-laden,
one seed blown into a mortar crack
will become a wedge --
a sprout that splits stone.
Concrete and steel prove
digestible:
time, water, oxygen,
the enzymatic requirements are few.
Fungi blooms from a pile-full of dung.
I don't know whether it's a desirable meal,
whether our trappings & vestiges are
haute cuisine,
or merely a meal
of convenience.
This place was once with us.
Now, it's hidden so well
that it's become a myth,
a once firm and tangible thing --
now invisible & conceptual.
Nature swallowed our world
and farted our mythos.
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“O sweet spontaneous” by E.E. Cummings [w/ Audio]
O sweet spontaneous
earth how often have
the
doting
fingers of
prurient philosophers pinched
and
poked
thee
, has the naughty thumb
of science prodded
thy
beauty how
often have religions taken
thee upon their scraggy knees
squeezing and
buffeting thee that thou mightest conceive
gods
(but
true
to the incomparable
couch of death thy
rhythmic
lover
thou answerest
them only with
spring)
Tiger Riding for Beginners 