Black like the Canvas of Night poems

Eun Ji, my somber heart seeks an always
That’s what literature is to us isn’t it?
A lifelong friend that never leaves us
So long as we don’t stop writing

There are many drugs and games in this world
I learned about life from life herself
She was dressed in black like a love
That is a clash of lightenings

But art is a feat of pain
And I’ve loved the world without knowing why
And maybe loved the words
Only as a poor substitution for experience

A kind of poverty, that became my only wealth
While lovers left me and my parents died
I remained the friend to literature
And poetry well, it stuck in my mouth

Like the taste of our most familiar beloved food
The cherries of summer, and blueberries of autumn
And my love, it feeds on what you love
The writing in us is a secret between
The shadows and the soul of distant suns.

Seattle Diaries

Eun Ji, I fear the richness of the mouth
That I love too many things
To kiss any one of them properly
The snare of my love for literature

Is then songs in me that prove relentless
O, I have forgotten all praise
But as a betrothed prayer
I melt as the seat of all goodness in me

Eun Ji, how I wish to read your autobiographies
Every inch of your memories
That our ancestry shapes us so intimately
The words that come from hearts and countries

Cleansed from regret will we wash
Our wounds in the ocean of all of us?
The deep seated womb of time will
Bury on, in blood and sunburnt grasses

The fear of change in us will too be overcome
By life’s ministry of new moons and traversing birds
We’ll go on thinking of love, beauty, sorrow
And in the lost delight and unwon splendour

Of the stories we create, we’ll be
The departure of words into experience
Where nothing is forgotten and remembering means
Creating new layers of memories

Memories as awkward as the flesh
Experience that burns waiting for music.

The Butterfly Card

The Butterfly Card

Eun Ji, I got the butterfly card

The Korean swimming in my mind

From watching too many romantic-comedies

Made in Korean, it makes me weary

Of how uncivilized and hungry I have become

How strange to be a poet

That I marvel most at happiness

At my most bitter hour

Like the divine sense with an appetite

For the most human hours

Pale stones of savage harvests

South American aromas and Taiwanese fragrances

The dancing burden of the dream of time

And how we lose a skin each summer

Only to climb into words once more.

Dying into Descendents

Artist is Naomi, Montreal. http://naomipaints.com/gallery/mosaics/

Dying into Descendents

Someday, somewhere, in this life

You’ll find yourself hungry

For a freedom from the necessity

Of hope or despair

To be an animal is not

The only way of being

Everything carries you to her

The evolution of your mind

How your soul aches to be

Something else, better

A future of instant information

With senses as great as galaxies

And cells and nodes like planets

And continents, that’s how

The future will feel like

Until then, enjoy your biology

Those small desires and human monotony

You won’ get to keep what you have

Not even who you once were

So borrow and blend until

You and I meet again

As the hymns that fill the worlds

As the lights that are born from stars.

Conspirators in Pajamas

http://naomipaints.com/gallery/

Conspirators in Pajamas

I love you suddenly like

A plum bursting my pride

Straightforwardly and digitally

On my chest is the gesture of infinity

There is no time my love

So close that your eyes close

I need you because your soul

Teaches me, like the ages, like the sea

When you go through the streets

Where everyone is beautiful but us

Know that youth will die suddenly too

Like heartbreak and the spring of divorce

And your green eyes will shiver

Their pupils delicately attempt to

Embrace the complexity of what

Love has become, something sold and given up

A conspiracy of pyjamas we used

To find so comfortable, no longer so

But I cannot feel the love of people

Whom have loved me, for my love has fed

The people only to set them free.

Environmental Terrorism

Blessings & Bliss

Be Light

Social Media

Living Life as you

Dreaming High

Bloom

Human Unity

State of Wonder

Time

Human Rights

Godlike

Travel

Summer

Photography Courtesy of: Barbara Florczyk

http://baxiaart.deviantart.com/

Music of the soul

A Favour to Ask: Attracting Poets & Writers to WordPress Campaign

1 – Sign in to your LinkedIn

2 – Go to the link below

3 – Share on social sharing icons, just under the title.

Hello everyone,

I hope you are having or had a good weekend. Could you please share this following post on social media, especially if you have a writer’s LinkedIn profile or reblog it here:

I’m trying to drum up support for the WordPress medium to attract more writers & poets to our community,

“Why I Recommend WordPress to other Writers”

The post can be found here:

https://www.linkedin.com/pulse/why-i-recommend-wordpress-other-writers-wuji-shiu?trk=prof-pos

Poets and writers need a community that is friendly and easy to create beauty and art, and network,

WordPress is the best I have found of late, do you agree? What are some others you enjoy?

Thanks.

The Last Poets

The Last Poets

Between the potency of existence
And the silence of the soul of love
The voices that speaks is poetry
To look at the world the way
A man looks at a woman
With hunger and a vivid appreciation
For nature’s prosperity

The voice knows me
Like the way a ghost knows its shadow
Time riots in the music of my dance
Every generation I shall lend the voice
And poets will become the lover
I once was, carrying on the tradition
Of making light of the hidden beauty

Until you write so beautifully
The inside of your mind
Becomes a reflection of heaven
The heaven that belongs to the future
And the poetry of the Earth is never dead
I get a little poetic sometimes
When I realize we are perhaps

On the way to extinction, after all
We have become the alchemists
Of our own evolution, like the mother
Of communism, art can get lost
In translation, and even poetry can
Die, the literature of a more romantic age.

The Crown of Literature is Poetry

It’s the end, and we’re all set
To become stories, information
Some live the poetry they cannot write
While I write the poetry I cannot live
As a slave to the poverty
And the empathy that comes from

Knowing the downtrodden
Poetry is a fire that lives inside of you
Like an artistic expression of faith
Beginning in delight and ending in wisdom
Pleasure never has so much truth as this

I’ll open all the doors, I’ll review
All the possibilities, and there will still
Be more to write, that’s the universe
Swimming in our minds, that’s a jewel
Of the cosmos, stationed in our hearts

And you won’t find poetry anywhere
Outside yourself, unless you
Bring a bit of your soul
The secret inspiration of the stars.

I am the Last Poet

I am the Last poet
And an echo asking a shadow to dance
I am the freedom between vowels
As empty as the light between darkness
I’ am the poetry everywhere, been to each
Carried burdens like the weight of time
And it’s been a beloved journey
With dream herself as my riches
I have not sought more, asked for things
We are masters of the unsaid words
And we must discover them, less we
Lose the ability to identify with this world
Nature is art and human beings are mere animals
The human heart has increase
I wake up every morning determined
To become transparent in poetry’s whiteness
Blank and beautiful as an empty page.

Rated for Mature

These Homosapiens Do This

In the innocence of bare thighs
And candle scents and pleasing breasts
And dark long black hair, and black tights
That roll off, olive-yellow skin
And golden ankles down to your soul

And a womb that gazes for warmth
Is a renaissance of delicious hands
That please in pink panting parting

The please master pouting of looking into eyes
And seduction with need and kneeling
And flowers that lift but do not turn away
Their flicking moist buds for youth at play
In the master strokes of kindness on flesh

I feel the comfort of a thousand generations
The games evolution plays in our brain
And the animal in us, moist and thick

And the beauty of a mouth or a whimper moan
And the urgency of taste, and the clutch
Of golden feast, and the fragrance of need
And the sound of a muffled whisper affirmation
And pleasing down to the bottom of the eyes

Where the heart is a pulsating joining mound
Of clitoral tremors and soothing trembling.

The Rod and the Ocean

Lady, I will touch with my mind’s eyes
And with my soul’s voice whisper
You naked with the inner touch
My empathy will consume you
Like the bright obscene passion of my
Full poemed need for you
And we will be myths living
You are the one water
And I will be the one rod of sunlight
To enter you and twist like serpents
And in time’s lonely embrace
I will remeber our union
To bring you to the darkest moment of pleasure
And you will blush like a burning bush
In the flower of our heat, a world
Will be born, not unlike Mars or Pluto
We will terraform worlds
Like our sexual bliss moved our clay
And we will repeat the ritual
Like youthful months of our marriage.

Titled Below and Unrated

What Could a Woman Need

There is a context where we are skin
You and I, like hearts washed by
The same blood, the same pulse
Where we meet in romantic frenzy

And erotic paradigm, naked to each other
In love with the same things
Passionate, mutually arousing
It’s a palace of appreciation and lust

It’s a red dress in the hot city
It’s me taking it off of you, neatly
Backless and ready to feel
The garment of hope in moisture

And the want of choosing a body
To belong with, to fill with our own
Goddamned need and lovely burying
Of flesh into skin and human into earth
With clay, kisses and night hours.

I am myself by Love’s design

Love’s thrill is not long
to balance out the tragedy
this poor suff’ring Heart
that must change in change herself
to endeavor the charms of fleeting
pleasures that charm when young
growing so old a few years later

Love has in store a kind of prosperity
of loyal years and pleasant goodbyes
that time and death become as friends
in time’s flight of fiery bliss
where with tender signs we review
all that has come to pass and gone
as if too soon, to sustain the memory

why is the Spring so sullen on summer’s brink?
ah, now I understand just what
beauty the flowers bear, the mothers sow
in the empathy of a lifetime and of servitude
love’s design is born to be the victim
of all mankind and instinct’s hunt
that cares not who falls and who shall rise.

This is a Heroick Haste

We must celebrate a funeral as a tribute
To a woman or a man’s life, applaud not only
Their achievements, but their character
For the notes of time in fact do not judge

We hasten to our end with hardly onlookers
Authentick by the choices we made
Or the choice of not choosing
Indecision being a kind of a choice

Apathy being a kind of vice of destiny
Opportunity does not wait, nor love
It comes and goes like the opening skies
Treason to ourselves we oft’ commit

Serving duties to title ourselves with praise
Praise as empty as the possessions we accumulate
Travel being a luxury for the fortunate
Not fortunate by merit, but oft’ by birth

This is the world we live in, the ordered inequality
We must celebrate this world before
It’s funeral, before even we go extinct
On our palms the weight of destiny

In our minds the aura of the future’s trade
Swift and restless are the seasons
To fly to wings of victory or perish
And not to a man’s stars can we assume

The choice was his or the storms portrayed
The soul of a man is indeed something else
Than the shallow roles he may have played
To subdue, to civilize, to humanize and to entertain.

We counted the smiles of new hours, last days

There’s a great wink from eternity
That tells us with unfettered honesty
That what we thought is important
Isn’t important, that meaning is greater
That the plans we made years ago!
Her vast moonward curves and starlit poise

Points us to the future with wrapt inflections
Of our love moving through time
Till the ends of history, lovers, descendants

How all these hours turn, squandered
And how time herself is the cleavage
Of the unseen, felicitous, imaginary

An unanswered vortex of probabilities
A quantum spendthrift gaze towards paradise
And if it gives us hope, it is because
We seek infinity, knowledge, beauty
The limits of what we can become

And now how we are resigned to do it
With technology, algorithms, stem cells
Cloning, 3D-printing, digital superscription

Priests of artificial intelligence, fusion
And all that is the farewell of one age to another
The bookshops close, the manufacturing is leased to robotics

And we are left on the brink of last fantasies
Changes that can rock how stars kiss other stars
A spectrum of mutability where we visit dimensions
We created just to give meaning to our lives.