Say Hey Ocean Storm


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Ocean there is no battle but love
The search for love, and fight for love
So when I wonder at your beauty and innocence
I cannot sustain myself on salty water alone

Though I be by you, come from you, watch you
It’s rare that you let the sunset down, into you
And I like it when it rains on you, Hae.mi
It’s “okay” to be like a storm

Chasing the horizons, I know how wild you are
I know your feelings on humanity, your need
To discover further facets of creation’s diversity
Ocean, there is not battle here

I am like the moon reflecting the tides
I pull you down to your naked rush
Until your luminosity is reflected in me
And there I don’t need to find you anymore

Since you will live on in me, like a beautiful nest
Of experience, nothing like experience,
The ocean’s beauty does that, it impresses with
Lessons in humanity, precision of passage to freedom.

Angels in Water


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Climbing clouds down to their source
I stumbled into Hae.mi in the Himalayas
She winked at me before we got to the tip

Of the Asian pacific rim of trust
It didn’t take long to know her wetness
The liquid laugh and sighs of freedom

Discovery was not what it once was
But the breezy evening of everything together
The density and timing of our moving lives

That pulls the knots out of their ruts
As warmth spills in-between the skin
That are the neurotransmitters of our insight

The weaving of consciousness and body’s self
And genes that got us this far, instinct
Where the azure brilliance of thirst no longer
Obeying the salt of hope, but thunder
And an inkling for lightning in the pools

Where mothers of pearl are in our blood
And our lips are the roots of talking and energy
That we pass around like stories of how to float
In an ocean of so much beauty, we sometimes forget
How and why we met, thousands of years ago

And why familiarity never dulled, how we moved
Together underwater, properly, in airy fields of dream.

The Little Dew


 

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Hae.mi, with the mood for loving kindness

I fall upon thee, as the last violin concerto

From some former life, which I cannot name

I copy the Korean scripture, as if it was known to me

Hae.mi, there is no life worth living, but the one

Not thine, not mine, but something else

Reminded from a child’s face, I linger there for long

Unable to remember the rapture then, of living

Of knowing with any certainty, anything

I am trapped between seasons aware of my own mortality

With a holy assembly of symbols, copied by time imperfectly

There’s no original art to this loneliness, only a kind of death

No God but a scattered Universe of galaxies, points of light

That tremble faster than I can move, Hae.mi, that’s it

You have surrounded me like water, like air, like perfume

And I am left with nothing but the memory of own imagination

That softly whispers without reply, in darkness, in the night

Where we cannot sleep and cannot name that thing between

The hours that are not tame, so sleek and pearly like the rain

Hae.mi, I’m lost to oracles and harmonics of melodic Korean

Without choice fruit, but the power to love in my own way.

The End of Music


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Go my lost songs of failure

The stars are bitter with a billion lives

They experience the lights as I do

 

More free than water, more alive than

Summer, or the organics that celebrated there

Go, my songs, that were never mine

 

We briefly hold on to life

Though lonely or unsatisfied

It does not matter – we are just

 

Visitors filled with the contempt

Of an imperfect journey

Wedded to ignorance and desire

 

Though I bend with night and rise

With the dawn in my mind

My heart coloured thirst born of this

 

There’s gentle music here, and open speech

In the cadence of all I see

But inside of me there is oppressed counterpoint

 

Go my songs, lost as I would end my search

In the silence of the subtle chords

Which is the fading light, and the years spoiled

 

Hungry for the return of octaves lost

And for the sport of voice and omens and lyrics

In the timeless commerce of beauty’s quivering vein.

 

First Snow


Snow

There’s music in the first snow
Like the foam of Seas, it’s ethereal
Letters of rock and water to Woman
To Man, a sub-music of the blue
Skies and clouds and seas

It’s the gulls of the cosmic rain
Variations on what winter means
The death of ease, the struggle for comfort
Unless in darkness, you find yourself?
We stepped over icicles of white

We felt it in our breath, sang our songs
It is cold to be forever young
And inside we are still so young
Sun-bleached are we not, we remember
The feel of winter on our laps

A humidity in the back of our throats
The jaded hope that this too will pass
It’s a faith of nature’s cycles that’s for sure
There’s music in the first snow
And release, release from so many things.

Life is not a Duty; It’s a Will


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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.

Seattle Diaries


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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.

On Being Conducted 


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In the sympathy of the Absolute
Mozart or Shakespeare didn’t know
How beautiful the categories
That makes a heart full with her genius
Or how a person can fly inside
In free-associating with our highest destiny

Sometimes we just follow whispers
And hit notes of mysterious Poetry
Or find a beautiful day to make music
And in the solitude of an ending meditate
I remember the feeling of internal seekers
That always wanted me to push on

And the petitions for more revelations
From the internal holy ghosts
I remember how certain emotions
Evoke a sense of wonder and how
The miracles drove me to visit the spot
Where God stood on his heels for me

And I felt the full gravity of time
And philosophy insisted to meet me as my guest
In the simplicity of what I believed was destiny.

Notes that Played on the Piano of Us


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Notes that Played on the Piano of Us

We met on a day that does not exist
That is why I know you so well
At the Haiku
Where dawn meets sunset
You gave me
Wingbeat, songbeak, heartlift,
And I was an opening
To all that was pure again
In candlelight of a foreign house
Llike where we met
Some exotic place
Where Mozart, Bach, Strauss
Lingered longer than usual
In the speckled light
Where we feel young again
We are young together
Younger than we care to admit.

I Came Here


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I came here
As I write these lines
Not as a poet, preacher, prophet
But at random, an explorer
Of language, this first
Invention, I find it very fine

Finer than many of our
New things, I embrace
The lineage of poet-saints
And eat the mystic rhetoric
For breakfast, all to have a

Feast of the mind, a daybreak
Of the soul, that is not
Contrived by economic murmur
The first light, the dispersion
Of the birds makes me feel free

Like the music behind verse
I came here
As I write these lines
As a simple fool & observer
Careful to maintain my silence

In this world of propaganda
Careful to maintain my purity
In these times of great corruption.

Alive We are But Vessels


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So, I will bend down with my soul
So, I will lay my face in the dust
So, I will find humility after brilliant failures
The songs of living will go on muffled

In my deviant will, my devious heart
I’ve had twenty-thousand desires
To err like this, to say that only few
Things matter, to say that the majority of moments

Will go forgotten, laughed upon, utterly accepted
So, I will bend my will to the nature in me
So, I will love what I was meant & made to love
So, I will find listening in times of bareness

And my life’s precious hours will disappear
Like all hours have fled before me
So, this is it and I am just one
So, the street-dogs will repeat what I have said.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Autumnal-Waters-404640689

Lyrics in Recession


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This horrible but superb painting
Is modern society faltering badly
the autumn empire of greed falling
an economic diagonally downward spiral

it’s october and I’ve found anticipation for a day
the pure diversion of the eternal present
it will be all gone soon enough
This splendid but tragic superb music

of living without justice and competing
nestling the alarms of a hush-throated society
I will close the doors of sense and world-news
for a humbling sort of use of poetry

to satiate the lyrics that internally glisten
for the new creation of some future’s
giant transforming wing, for minds
and youth to whom all anguish has been mended
to live or not to live, in a better world.

Photo Courtesy: http://www.deviantart.com/art/Lightness-of-Being-404173536

Impossible


I can’t carry the grand piano
Downstairs without a partner
I can’t do it, I won’t, do it
I want to be boundlessly rich
In spirit, with a partner
My best friend, who can draw
Out a smile, even a half-smile
And in company revelling
A half-night expand
To a year full of good nights
And no goodbyes, give me
Fifteen rubies for all the times
I will be able to say ‘I love you’
I want the impossible
I want a bride like Clara
A questioner like Jackie
I can’t carry the past alone
I wasn’t built for staying up late.

Mapping That Which Brought Forth Honey


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It’s breathwork to play with syntax
Like underwater synastry of phrasing
The cadence is a cukoo of metre

I refuse consensus of syllable-count
I’m articulate without parameters
A free-verse bird’s call, a terrible fret

Of the higher forms of expression
A particular stanza, the way the wind blows
Agreeable in a certain slant of light

It’s breathtaking to shape music
And juggle fiction like ethereal plot
The trees, they have a last-chance

Threshold of dispossessing the wind
The poet, purifies language
In ceremony that ponders our hulking innocence

Those parts in us which are still raw
To the core of world-class lyrical topography.

My Opaline Vision


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There are views and sighs
Where the vistas is still your face
There are coastlines where the waves
Are the most celebrated musicians
There is music in all these things
Liquid prayers cast off by nature’s harmonics

I can feel them in your cheeks
And in the higher clouds
Would you notice in an open heart?
The frequency of our becoming
Ancient layers where love already took place
And was sealed in children and dust

The shared labour of our tribes?
There are places that are fountains for the sun
Where the vistas is still your face
Burned in my memory like indulgent springs
The angles of your pouting discrepancies
You were the darkness that burned in me
To cool my wild-fire of doubt.

Paddling With Breathlessness on Stilts I Write


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Until now, I knew I possessed nothing
Damned by decrees of my own
Selfishness, I pretended

Behind a circus show of reason
At the Ball of tantalized feeling
But now, I know the way the world ends

Whatever else I might succumb to
It will be the poetry of freedom
Without rhetoric, or tricks of lying

Or slang speech particular to my times
Until now, I hid in incredible musical scales
Behind melodies, beneath the chorus

All poets pick themselves out of rivers
I’m half-deceived, by the lovers who left me
Because I was nothing but a poet

But it’s my first white wave of climbing hope
The last word I say before my doom
Whatever else, poetry is my first freedom

So don’t ridicule me for loving a kind of art
My dream is an impatient cadence pure
That gives me resurrection, when life

Offers me none, these flaming parenthesis
Have become my means of transcending you.

To Death Are We All Bestirred


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All souls of those I loved
Remain translated inside of me
Like a body of literature compact
A bright array of time’s swinging singularities

So many harps hung upon the balconies
All these guitars twanging for
Cheer divine, our star like courses
Comprehend the racing years

In wordless ascension towards our
Own kinds of bliss, mortal hearings
We are garlands of quatrains
Stanzas of the unyielding Almighty’s word

How we endure like spoken flutes
Of alien thresholds, invisible feelings
I am not sure, all spirits of those I treasured
Remain like jewelled ornaments

On the lips of children not my own
They will not take the earth by force
But by the bodies of their subtlety.