You thought I was stopping
by at the appointed time,
not nearly so close
I’ve been pushed away
any time’s wind filling
up my sail
I’ll be back around but
not at the place I was
expected, showing up
as a series of surprising
African masks, a lunar moth,
or some myth.
For love
of poetry
I sat on ledges
a stone gargoyle
of hesitant
romance
I hid my face
gave myself
a new name
kissed
a storm on its
booming forehead
made peace
with more than
a few excuses.
not coming through
we come through
mangled
walls of skin
breached
to let
our souls
breathe
for a single
moment
nothing
feels
like
almost
everything
&
the wrong
place
inside
us all along
&
even though
we can’t
outrun ourselves
it doesn’t stop
any of us from trying
I’m more of a Cassandra with
my fingers on the pane
of Gettysburg
and early in the morning
it’s the birds territory
we step into
borrowing things
that belong to them
not just songs
but language barriers
and sometimes
even falling
out of trees
at night
if only on the inside
In the woods soft snow
falls on the first day of spring.
Two daffodils laugh.
More at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com.
In my garden
Up the old oak tree
Lives a beautiful
Caterpillar
With me,
Spinning around
His oak tree,
Watching him
Cocoon in my
Garden with me…
Out of the window of the quiet night
is a group of spirits,
On the right are the meteors of yours，
On the left is ａ bright moon of mine.
The world is so quiet now,
There‘s the darkness still blooming,
There’s a light that’s not awake yet to has fun.
I confess it,
There’re many scenes that aren’t lustful.
I confess it,
There’s brewing a lot of determination
from all the hopes and lines.
The night had come without ａsmile,
Setting with silence and cold.
May you can look at the bright moon at this time again，
May you can wish for the meteors
without any doubts or pains.
I lie in my room
and welcome the rain
this renewing rain
foretelling of spring
the grass and trees
invent the new season
such a burst of buds
and promising shoots
ancient recipes of change
effortlessly unfold
everyday splendor
I humbly give thanks
The audience of metal people, is anyone distraught?
No one has tried a mask. No one has tried a thought.
The tears unshed.
All faces dead, a sort of metal rot.
To make a sound, to make a frown, I tried from up above. But, gaping eyes without surprise,
Emerged
A haunting joke.
This audience of metal, a gathering of rot,
The yellow stain of many.
A noise
I can’t
Forgot
pretty good is truly as good as it gets
take my word on it, don’t make any bets
decades of experience reinforce the plot
don’t push it, be happy with what you’ve got
improvements turn out to be a mirage
so enjoy your man-cave in the garage
this is the best advice I’ve ever had
pretty good usually beats pretty bad