After False Disasters of Failure

 

Let me not let God in the house
But instead let nature in my brain
With an open heart for all that is sacred
Gratitude, compassion, empathy
Can I live my life by these simple things?
I care not what happens to me
If I die a fool, alone, that is my fate
I don’t require faith, to appreciate
Let not idols of men be my guide
I am the spirit incarnate of all
I am the sweetness or the rise and the fall
When there is light, I am humble
Where there is darkness, I am graceful
Let me not let greed or comfort too close
But in experience find my course
That is not sure, but flexible
That I am not strong, but vulnerable
With an open heart for the credence of summer
Opened by the fragrance of spring.

Princess of the Sun

 

 

 

 

Xiao Wei, how could one indeed not

Repeatedly feel the wonder of this world

This cosmos, so green and so vast

With eyes like yours, with the twinkle of Shengyang

 

The sun from the honest world of the north

Xiao Wei, over whomever one really

Wanted to meet, I must give salute and bow low

This world is full of goodness, if we

 

Know how to find it, and sweat the

Speechless feverish fires of passion

That break our trembling months into

Golden prosperity, we are all ghosts and memories

 

Xiao Wei, how to find experience

The spring blooms of our native touch?

Until the seasons grant us some joy

So free and pure that our hearts are broken

 

Open, in the fields, beneath the stars

With children and the legacies of our minds

That ache and aspire to repeat the experience

You may not recall the Shen river

 

Where we once met, I had another form then

And you were the bride of the entire world.

Untamed Time

 

 

 

Overnight where I slept

I felt the chill of eternity

Sweep through the years of this body

 

And my brain was only an experience

It wasn’t real if real things last

The love I had I gave to the Earth

 

To her children and the soil

Where I grew a garden in my mind

There was no love there

 

Just the thrill of a destiny

Broken and churned like

The pangs of creation gone un-nurtured

 

Sleep was like that in mortality

A kind of escape from the anxiety

Of living and not knowing how to

 

Create destiny with mere tools

And hope out of loneliness.

 

Life is not a Duty; It’s a Will

Sameness dulls the mind
And love shakes the heart
So do not be too cautious
This life is enough to sip

Do not hurry, but
Carry lovely garlands in your hair
And smile to break up the sameness
Burn with courage, to

Shatter the dullness
Remembering those things
We did in our youth….
Be young and stay beautiful

Give your heart to the world
Or live a miserable existence
We’re all inches from dying
Our genes are mutating at every instance

Instead of playing roles, play music
The music of risk and ventures
The art of losing and winning
In a speed of learning and changing

Life is too short to forget
What longing means, what reddening brows
What breasts that shoot like cupid
Whose heart is apple-plucked

Too soon must drop to the ground
But fruit is meant to be eaten and bountiful
Love is meant to be poignant and profound
Who takes joy in the wounds and errors

Finds life a garden of many delights
There is not enough courage to go around
To find a life worth the exercise of hunts
And strong muses to fill your life

With resonance, spirits, colors
How delicate and wanton the Graces
How easily we lose obedience to desire
As if a safe secure life was the goal.

Deprived of Flight

I’m tired of days drunk
With the sameness that doesn’t realize
Innovation, experience compressed
Time encapsulated with love

O but are we exiles then
Migrants who must walk mountains
Slumbering in the mire of silences
My blue memories are fading

Like the pure golden statues of youth
That were maybe nothing more than
Projection, silver mooncraft gone
Discovery and identity shaping embarrassments

My mouth dry and caked with dust
My love departed in their early faces
I’m tired of being plundered by experience
As if the rogues of time knew something
I do not know, do not possesses, cannot reach.

Wonder of Aging

It occurs to me now
How our soul is honed by love
Not the love of barter and exchange
But the love of inspiration
That changes a heart
To become a better person
You simply smiling, that is
Enough of the forever kindness
To fuel me for a quiet lifetime
There is no answer to the questions
We age, wander, wonder, mature
Until we accept everything
Like eyes on a shelf of time
Ready to empathizes and stumble
A little longer, every goodbye
Isn’t gone, it’s just the stirring
Of chatter, breath, blood, wings.

In Times of Trouble

I know what my heart is like
It’s everything and everyone
Dying inward for a bit of belonging

Hoping to touch a bit of life
For the sake of being reborn in identity
In sharing experience and tenderness
Was it for this I once uttered prayers?
That I should retire alone the years?

Bear me a crown of golden foreverafters
Love is the gold gown I’ve worn
In good times and the bad

If I grow a bit bitterly on life’s low shrub
Do not say I knew not flowers or
That I did not give everything
To the ones who truly mattered
Spring on horseback, Autumn on these lips

I knew and loved all that I could
My thin fingers lifting bright threads
Of music from the clouds

I know what my heart is like
Eun Ji, don’t you? I won’t sit smiling
But I’ll listen with Dandelions
And some brief word from you.

The Pain of Nice Dreams

The Pain of Nice Dreams

Eun Ji, I am haunted wherever I go
Trust between this Earth & Ether
I am what I am, with fifth essence
Time bleeds and broods not shyly

I am hunted and descendent
In burning bright and riding light
I am the calm harbour of weary years
Death here becomes the vistas

Of life’s own immortality and passage
From one state to another, decades roll
Like leaves and sun that hits the mountain
And flowers that remember not stories past

I’m glad, I think, and what’s more
Time’s newfound speed is a grace to me
One day to sail to a freer land
The round berries red, have been thrown

Into the river, our houses torn down by the storm
But what is life, but a beating heart
And poems which have not appeared
And experiences that will not be had

And women that won’t ornament our hours
I am that which broods, chiding poetry
Of how it squandered itself on vain holiness
Sacred to itself like a passionate dream.

Lyricism Wrought from pain

And in this time, of my material poverty
I’ve come to realize an important thing
That I have no riches but my spirit
No prosperity like the kingdom of my own thoughts

The love of the universe
Trapped inside of me, so innately
Yes these must be wealth enough for me
Not friends, women, comforts, luxuries

Can compare to the range of joy
That sets its bounds of beauty upon me
In the cosmos of my heart’s secret place
I also like most all that comes

And least of all, all that goes
For change is oft too unpredictable
To draw the sunsets from my mind
Or write a golden lines that stands

As the best, of my unoriginal mind
Life is but a thought, sailing in breath
A great league of breaths that hushes
Over everything, beauty breaks the heart

In the right way, even as we
Found more joy in sorrow than
The reverse, tonight is wonderful
Tomorrow is profound, and that my dears

Is the hidden love in creativity
That the heart knows the songs
The music it must make, not me, not I, not we.

Jupiter Rising for Those Who Love

When I can look at life in the eyes
Of the heart, from the heart of my eyes
I see the calm of everything
The current of love beneath time

And it shall not be memory
For existence is only fresh in experience
Silent as a woman waiting for love
It’s not enough to act or listen

The world waits for the spring
And youth comes only once
In meagre compensation for biology!
I should be glad for loneliness

And hours to wonder what is divine
And a thirst body that amounts to
An empty heart to fill the jewels
Of single songs of people dear

And lovely melodies full of light
If I have loved much and been loved deeply
It is enough, enough to say
It will soon be over, on a hushed winter’s night.

Had I Been in Love with the World

Eun Ji, is it true when they say:
The dead of midnight is the noon of thought?
I write so often after midnight
And wonder how your evening goes

When one by one our dreams are torn
How should we make a great mark
Upon the world, and finding
That there are no important objects

What shall we do with the rest
Of these years, as friends mourn
How sweet it will be to die with poems
And if it’s not what we say or think

That defines us, what can we do?
Is loving enough? I have no notion
Of loving people by halves
But if our attachments are excessively strong

Should we then be torn from
Changing the world, and piercing the soul
Of the many, forgetting the few
Who may have given us something

Or who may have led us astray from our mission
We reach a point in life when
We are no longer satisfied with being agreeable
It saves people that trouble asking us
To change for them, such a useless endeavour.

You Lie Upon the Night Like I once Did

I am tired, Beloved
Chafing my heart against this world
The youth in me condemns
This dishonest world to change

The maturity in me condones
Myself for being unable to keep up
I am tired, but let us be of cheer
For gratitude is the boon

If suffering is the noble sacrifice
All beings make to experience
Don’t let your adventure by too tidy
Out of fear of getting hurt

You lie upon your stars
Like a nest of seeking security
But self, you’d be more divine
If you flung your heart
A little more upon the wind.

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.

Time

Forgetfulness is Rain at Night

At last the stage
Where we each must play our part
In dripping years with solemn hearts
To age and alas to forget

The ambitious of youth, and to enter
The lamps of silence and acceptance
Forgetfulness is like a song
That freed us from our old pleasures

Freedom is like a witness, to realize none is there
At last we enter the place
Where we are at the location
Of who we were meant to be, after all

Silence is like a prophecy
Alone in the company of our fading projections
Alike to voice and motionless
Unwearyingly we take our place

Among the living and smouldering eyes of the dead
To stun our fancies into something tangible
And experience the whispering tapestry
Of the fringes of our being, algorithms of
The last potential we can summon.

I Made a Fire

Eun Ji, I thought I knew
Every side of you, like
A student of your lifetime
Experience is us, the ones

They stick it in, perhaps
Human beings just use each other
The red wall of our heart
Winces, every time a lover

Shames us in misunderstanding us
Not comprehending why
We put our passion before them
Ironically, it’s the quality they

Love most about us, or envy
Our drive, the talk of immortality
In our will to produce and take action
A bit like how Sylvia Plath
Far outranks Ted Hughes in quality

And merit, it’s obvious now
How women are forced to sacrifice
Or become lonely women

Who labor a lifetime to have a literary baby
For another glass ceiling
Until we burn all our letters
Of love, well, and tiredness
Until the wastebasket is full of love’s lies

And letters full of their death rattle
And rubbish other women buy into.

Serenity is the ability to cope with conflict

Serenity is the ability to cope with conflict

Nothing every exists, entirely alone
Don’t let perfection concern you
You’ll never reach it
Everything is in relation
To everything else

And the facts of your life
Will not cease to exist
Just because you happen to ignore them
Don’t depend on anyone
In this world for even your shadow

Will leave you when you’re in the dark
And when you live truly
The world stops, it stops and all
That exists is staring at you
Nothing ever experiences, entirely

If it’s not completely immersed
In what it is doing
And finally, there is nothing
On this earth better
Than a soul you can connect

With on every level
So be sure to not chase perfection
Be sure not to live in isolation
Be sure to depend on others
Be sure to walk with shadows
And be sure to find a soul.

Life is the only real counsellor

Life is the only real counsellor

It’ s the Spring, a heartbeat at my feet
Tightrope above a feather bed
Looking down on beauty
From on high, landscape, foreign grounds

There are a few ways
Of spreading light
Be the candle or the mirror
And Lo’, beware of monotony

Mother of all deadly sins
For boredom is not evolution’s whim
Give me the tightrope, the short-squeeze
The misfortune of having strong desires

True originality consists of
A new vision of yourself, not new manners
But attitudes that can transport
Your entire life into more necessary habits

For there is time to be inarticulate
But not time to be indecisive
It’s the Spring, let’s get divorced
Marry, and say we are living

The life we want to!
We make our own stories
Hero of the shaky narrative
Good plot, bad blot, matters not!

It’s time to move forwards
For we shed tears in Winter
So we could start again in Spring.

Experience #Poetry #poem

I Bask in dreams of Experience

The cure for the incurable is experience
It always is, even if there is
No cure for curiosity

We have to follow
The majesty of the heart
How many do not listen
Lying to yourselves

I want to build a resume of sincerity
Authentic to myself
In youth, it was an easy thing

So sure to live my own theories I was
But now the things I know I know
Are not the things I do or know how to do
And if you do not like me so

To hell, of course, to hell with you
For why would I stake to please
The people that do not care
The people who are not close

The remedy for sanity is dear experience
It always is, even if there is
No cure for experience
I hate having written, but I love writing

Don’t read this poem with that tone of voice
Tell God I was fucking busy—or vice versa
I’ve lived enough in poems, to fill a few brains
With envy, content, and sufficient champagne

Curiosity and freckles, if we are talking of youth
If I didn’t care for life so much
I’d probably not amount to much
But brevity, is the soul of dreams

Mortality, the sinner of hope
Regret, the grandmother of art
And if my heart became scarred or burned,
The safer I suspect, to find love in poems.

Losing #NationalPoetryMonth #NaPoWriMo

Losing as a Perquisite to Experience

The art of losing doesn’t take
Practice, we do it a bit every day
It isn’t hard to master
We all have a talent in forgetting

Memory is not accurate you see
It doesn’t take analytics to say
That we lose each other a bit
Each day, so don’t spend

Your hours badly, don’t leave
Your keys in the door
Love is a practice of losing further
Losing faster, it’s a lost art

How to watch the watches, please
Just love your life, that’s primary
Then love each other, that’s secondary
The art of losing isn’t hard to master

I owned a lifetime then it was taken away
We don’t possess, we just experience
The art of losing doesn’t take any
Special belief in the afterlife.

Title Embedded Below

We Worship perfect because we can’t have it

Language, it has allowed me to dream
I’ve never done anything but dream
All experience is a simulation
Of what our senses tell us

We perceive, all relationships
Are 80% make believe
And thus, I come to the point
Where my ultimate concern

Is naturally, for my inner life
Is the book of disquiet over?
Is the meaning found that escaped me?
Are the idols ready to be pushed aside?

And the myths, are they ready
To succumb to new myths, new standards?
To make way for the new
Language, it has allowed me to feel

I’ve never done anything but feel
All thoughts have a quality of feeling
Objectivity is the greatest lie
But subjectivity is an ironic dreamer

Full of queer promises and casual observations
That do not register fully until years later
That I take a certain pleasure in the fact
Of watching daydreams go down in defeat

Words like any truth, are part duality
And what once seemed like a clever remark
Can later feel like the ghost of an imaginary friend.

Mask for Sunshine

Mask for Sunshine

Spring chases death
As light softens night
Into the realization that time
Floods a clear sky daily
Time wasn’t linear

It was just our incomplete
Perspective that made it seem
Chronological like a butterfly
But our software will become
Transparent, like how buds blossom

Organic, mornings turned pink
For the nectar of new opportunity
Spring chases death
Out of the door, but
By the window we see

Our missing half of our lives
How love chases out all memory
Pruning our hearts with the infinite
We’ve studied days and yet
Still cannot find the answers

Practically speaking, there were no
Permanent destinations, no true markers
Only the aromas of experience
As perceived by our executive will
To see bare branches or

To touch and behold buds
The sun will chase us all west
Like birds along the gentle slopes
Of time’s lonely and illegible engravings.

Like Memories of Seasons

I’d kiss the spring
For death’s immorality
Is near as the cherry’s rising

Sun, at the core of hope
I no longer have faith
Nor does grief carry

The flag of my destiny
I’d kiss the sea’s laughter
If I lived near the ocean again

It’s been too long
Since I knew my ancestors
In my own blood

The yellow explosions
Of Autumn, only leave
Joy in the middle of a dazzling

Symmetry of experience
That is gone too soon
With memories suspended like

The collapsed birch branches
Of solemn winter
There will come a time
When all my kisses have expired.

Inner child metaphor of a tree

The trees they rise up
As if up from their own free will
Into the light, wild, happy
Strong, if only I could be that way
But nature did not make me strong
And I was not born free
But chained, enslaved, shy

But what if the dreams
Were grafted to my branches
Like fruit and I could see
The horizon with replanted forests
What if I could breathe clean fresh
Perspectives for breakfast?
Fit with buds for birds to ransack

Or pollen to spread nature
The true nature of our spontaneous
Selves, the inner-child without her mask
The trees they rise up
For too many generations, with
The secret of the ancient taste
From our growth what silver fir

Reveals the truth that was our destiny?
It was not the water, wood, air, light
These were only elements
Of how we found what we were made of
It’s just that way if I am a barren stem
I won’t be blown around as much
Nor catch the eye of creatures

But what could I then become
In an open sunlit field, left as I was…

Dirty Gold

I wrote a book of questions
For you, before you left
Until every event in my life
Became a metaphor for poetry
Is the lamp of my happiness
Tattooed on your skin?
Is my heart so dependent

That the night and day
Are prisoners to its food?
I wrote a book of questions
For the little moments of gratitude
And how the roots of my soul
Must climb towards the light?
I do not know how to live alone

Is it always the same spring
Who revives the role?
Experience does not bring answers
She brings sweet uncertainty
Between the orchids and the wheat
Which does love favour?

A woman likes security
That’s right…

Karma Dragons

We all invent a face for ourselves
A life to lead, experiences
To intrinsically alter our
Soul’s DNA, our evolutionary quotient

We lived and died
And were reborn as other people
We all required a narrative
To live in order to get

Where we are going
That which is at the heart of learning?
We get wrinkles on our faces
Our wrinkles have no faces

We are a spirit luminous
Trembling in a garden of flesh
How the trees lean together
And whisper in the night

We should know social bonds
Not simple be, a single
Monotonous intensity of identity
But know, what we experience

Others experience, symmetrically
We all invent a life for ourselves
A path to tread, a body of experiences
The calligraphy of the birds

Or the dire poverty of
A marketplace exploited by others
We were animals with
Radiant hands, and still had

A good land for dreaming
And I still begged for moderation and simplicity
To be tied to time with a light thread.

Invitation to Experience

To posterity I give prosperity
Unread verses, anonymous scripts
Of the law of love encoded
Hardwired and entranced

Who will be born tomorrow?
I would write for them
Tell them of their hearts
And the dancing histories of humanity

Time is long and the worlds are wide
The path of the ancients
Runs in our acts, everyone’s path
Fate is not a solitary act

Beauty is not a generational event
Truth is not owned, liberty is not bought
I have never won, by sword or pen
My freedom, only in the future

Can you be free, not today
I wasted my life in insolent loneliness
Only to discover pure experience
Requires greater risks, greater acts

Of self-determination
Than I was ever capable
Traveler, hurry your steps
Be on your way, for you may

Not have the time later
To do truly what you want
To posterity I give prosperity
Lyrics unchained of two gardens.

The spilled blood will have no fragrance

The spilled blood will have no fragrance

Angel.
Dissolve my tears
My drama is too personal
Woodcutter.
Cut my shadow from me
The torment is without
Fruit, or just reward
Winter is the night copied
When all the stars are blind
God.
Leave some birds
The seeds that were dreams
Have been wasted
Youth.
Let go of me now
I am no longer a virgin
Or opportunistic or idealistic
Time.
Needle in the water
Of my health
Do not think we do not see you?
Melting the sun like a great center
A snake of flesh
The wood-cutter does not know
When, my heart grew pale
With stress, or
How the silence became moist and wise
Beneath the burden
Of the escaping years
Angel, woodcutter, God, youth, dreams, time
Do not imagine just because
I am now old, that I know
What experience is
Perhaps, perhaps I was hiding all along
From living.

Post-Modern Freedom

A self-help series poem

Post-Modern Freedom

Don’t be surprised by events
Experience is your teacher
Don’t be attached to what you have
Life has given you

So much already
Time is what may come to pass
Because today you were ready
Give up defining yourself

Live in the freedom of the moment
Don’t let past labels cloud your judgement
But be a clean slate each and every day
Die to yourself that you might

Love the world more, it’s sometimes
Necessary, to become somebody new
Change to adapt to the challenges
Push yourself to surprise yourself

Experience is your loving teacher
Time is your tender mistress
Abundance and simplicity will play
With you, as children you once knew

Do not be surprised if they call you names
Do not be shocked if they depart
You are who you are for a reason
Awaken to that purpose so you can

Clearly celebrate the moment
And finally, be grateful for the
Emergence of new experiences
Your soul likes them before
You perceive they are even happening to you.

A living mathematics

Life is a mob of music
the sky and memories
full of bodies and wood
the feeling of watching

others, as if we existed
separately, the virtualization
of difference, the illusion
of diversity, the impression

of individualization, but
all the notes move together
in a cadence that is a pattern
where all the variables follow

predictable algorithms
it doesn’t take a computer to
see, life is a volume of designed
potential, impatient for itself

to manifest, for a brief vistas
of glory and effort, to simulate
something of the journey
and evolve a kind of ambiguity

of the summation of experience
which is invariably limited
to conditions imposed upon
the manifestation, and the living

would be speaking
in a kind of daze to itself
sounds over space, that join
to form some brief relevance

like a page of Euclid, a
trajectory of something that
once seemed important or
at least a step forward

In the diction without
A manuscript, a semantics
Of how to breath and what
To want, and how to possess

The moment better, as if
We didn’t all want the same things.