The months came by to visit,
June with her sunny disposition
and April with her warming charm.
December was silent and deadly,
as usual.
August was barely dressed
and October wore his favorite
costume, munching on candy.
The evening came and they swept
away to set the rest of the year’s
gradual time.
Is it one those rare gifts we all have?
Never truly feeling, or is it
One we all have,
Afraid to show,
Knowing what it is
Yet when offered
We run and
Hide.
The world needs poets to create gardens
from stinking compost and the bitter seeds
of this season’s harvest, to dig with our bare
hands into the moldy refuse, loosen air
into the soil, thumb seeds and bulbs
in orderly tracks, cover gently and soak
until the dirt compacts again.
Months after a new President’s sworn in,
snow recedes into grey slush.
Then the poets’ work emerges
in vibrant green nubs and shoots.
Out of the softening earth grow white
snow drops and fragrant hyacinths, blue
crocus, crested iris and red tulips. Dogwood
and cherry trees burst brilliant overhead.
Queer
first-generation
Chinese-American
woman.
I embody nearly everything
the red puzzle pieces
of our country
stand against.
I sobbed until I couldn’t breathe.
But my friends
ignited a storm,
sympathy rain
and solidarity wind.
Hope lives on
in the minorities
the fighters
the dreamers.
We will not be silenced.
This is our fight,
America’s fight,
the world’s fight.
And we won’t back down.
I walk past water gums,
roots twisting and flowing over rock,
past the creek’s eddy and swirl,
past deep grooves in rock
made long ago by sharpening spears.
Is that the laughter of naked children?
No. They are long gone,
now only imagination’s shadows
flitting through scrub.
I scramble up a long hill
to stand on a huge expanse of rock.
The world seems quiet and still.
All around in the stone are carvings-
kangaroos, emus, women, men, shields, spears,
a great spirit creature.
I imagine clans of Dharug people meeting here
to dance, laugh, cry, draw, worship, wonder,
and most of all, to belong.
Do I sense them?
That is a lie.
Their culture, life, laughter and song
have shrunk into the past.
They seem long gone.
I lie on the rock and close my eyes.
Underneath my back
are curving patterns in rock.
I see cloud, rain, sun’s rising, sun’s falling, moon, stars,
the diamond quilt of night.
I see people greet, paint their bodies, tell stories, dance, sing,
belong, feel purpose, feel love, draw and carve.
I am filled with loss for the changes of time,
for the tangle of history,
for the injustice of the present,
for prejudice, dislocation, theft and murder,
and I know that where they,
in such deep belonging, did roam,
my ancestors, England’s rejects,
came from the other side of the world
to claim it as their own.
The sun is low.
I begin the long walk back.
As I walk I am moved by the knowledge
that Dharug people are still living,
scattered through the land of their ancestors
and although the past cannot be changed,
its loss and sorrow should be sung.
I am taken too by the crazy dream
of a single people
meeting under these southern stars,
upon the great patterned rock of this land
to draw, dance, embrace and sing together
as I descend into a gully
and the sun disappears
and the single evening star
hangs low in the darkening sky.
More at http://windofflowers.blogspot.com.au.
Dedicated to my sweet Romanian friend V.D.
Beauty is you,
goodness is you,
heart is you,
love is you,
soul is you,
joy is you,
flower is you
smile is you,
peace is you,
light is you,
life is you
They’re painting the housing estate on our street
scaffolding is up like match sticks waiting to burn
people call this area the Bronx – I don’t know why
About time they got around to this, my husband says as we pass by
I suspect it’ll be up for months to come.
The court decision came out today,
it don’t bode well for Mrs. May
hurry, run and get your washing in
‘cos it’s about to rain.
They’re painting the housing estate on our street,
grey scaffolding like the withered limbs of trees
diminishing in the Autumn breeze
they haven’t seen a drop of paint yet,
parched throats yawning at the heavy sky.
I hear they use bamboo on
the dizzying skyscapers in Hong Kong
they say that it’s much lighter
than iron, and just as strong.
Meanwhile, on our humble street,
The scaffolding still stands like sentries
across the rows of spartan serfs
blank-facing with Euclidean ease
my footsteps echo on the earth,
toys blowing like litter in the breeze.
My husband reminds me they elected the Nazis
and the peasantry wrought out the Ustaše
I always thought we had we had the rule of law to thank
for saving us from our worst excesses.
But maybe all this caustic window dressing
is headed for the winter’s bite
hate frozen-marching up its alleys,
hearths dwindling in the dead of night.
I fear the facade of the ugly idea
as much as the idea itself
or maybe it’s not the idea I fear
but the degraded collective consciousness.