Chasing Freedom

Here there is a road that’s just opened

With scarlet leaves from November

The womb is wandering, time is skewed

Into branches of alluring encounters

 

 

Time is invisible, but I can feel her warmth and her breath

Hae.mi’s pattern of spell-binding designs

Like a new layer of myth-making and story-telling

There will be no rendezvous this time, only words

 

 

That hang between silences as soft as their landing

Passages to another state, remedies for life’s fascination

Laughing, I would unbutton your otter coat

Pour you a drink in the morning of your drunkenness

 

 

To keep you safe from your own wilderness and wildness

The lovely insanity you keep usually guarded and in check

I don’t have the heart to let you go, while

I keep traces of the sun and your honest glow

 

 

Hae.mi, does the dewy light hear our noon-time prayers?

As in an airy shrine, where our ancestors breathed

Might we know how to touch our own freedom again!?

One Book of Poems is like a Novel

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One Book of Poems is like a Novel

You do not seem to have
The heart of poetry
You do not suffer tragedy
Like a liar who always speaks the truth

A poet looks at the world
The way a man looks at a beautiful woman
As if he will be haunted by her
All day long, the poet doesn’t

Have to invent, she listens
She listens all day
Like a solider ready to liberate words
From their steadfast possession

Of definition, form, ignorance
A poet must be a psychologist
She must find secrets
And tell them in some grasping narrative

For too much feeling unearthed
Like the soul lost, a mother-tongue
There is poetry as soon as
We realize we possess nothing

Then all the world comes alive
Sometimes poetry is inspired
By the conversations of life
Other times by the readings of other poems

There you go again, plucking
My heartstrings and making
Music with them, each word
Bears the weight of your loneliness
I’ve read my own quite slowly too.

There Would be people who listen

There Would be people who listen

Poetry being internal rambling
Is a lousy form of activism
It doesn’t really change much
In a world where poetry
Doesn’t get read, actions are not words

Though words may be a kind of
Act, a poem doesn’t start
A revolution, isn’t a political

Act of martyrdom
Though a poet is the best imitator
This art being the easiest to dabble in
The hardest to truly reach excellence
And the most lovely to quote

What’s a good quote without
The sense of magic
That concentration and economy

Unique to good verse
Like a short story compacted
Into a few brilliant lines
It’s contemplation of years soaked
In the seconds of our precision

If a spirit would ever want to be precise
I do not know, though the soul
Might want to love intent

Because you’ve got to find the truth
Within you, and penetrate it
Like having a very intuitive pen pal
Very far away, you have to
Summon her, exchange lives with her.

On Saying what you feel freely

Let’s not try to define ‘Poetry’

I have been self-indulgent
With the most transient of art-forms
Not music, but poetry
Embracing imagery so light and immediate
As to be considered a kind of jazz

On the beat of the unfinished work
Of moons, on the anonymous audience
That is everywhere and nowhere
Let me ready you some of my
Poetry, it’s just the sign of the whispers

That took me to another level
The comedy of being myself and learning
To be other than what I once was
Most people ignore poetry
Because it doesn’t live in their chords

They don’t have inner guitars
In the heart-chakra, that fit
Upon the little words they use
In the days, in-between their thoughts
I think poetry always lives

In-between people, in the energy
That they release when they
Come into contact with each other
Nobody ever tells us what to read
Poetry’s always dead you know

Reading it is like getting ready to die
And looking at all we have done
And said in retrospect, like a ritual
Of how we summarize meaning.

Some things poets seem to have forgotten

Some things poets seem to have forgotten

My Grandmother turned me on
Poetry and philosophy
She used to collect clippings
Of poems from the local newspaper

I read Tennyson, Yeats, Blake
In her book collection
She read those poems often
The pages were old and bent

Years later, I would write
My philosophy in poems
With my own clippings
Of Taoism, Buddhism, Sufism

And transhumanism, but I knew
By the time the singularity reached us
Poetry might have gone extinct
The poetry of the high-bow

Is now so inaccessible, without
Seemingly, any deeper meaning
The trend to write dead things
That passes as coldly as a poor display

Perhaps the future of poetry
Lies in the fringe verse
Of the downtrodden and in the
Privileged academic babble

Of poets who make art without
A true connection to the zeitgeist
I don’t need a Masters in Fine Arts
In poetry or creative writing

To feel entitled, but women like my grandmother
Will die out, millennials are making
Other choices, they don’t need to
Be starving artists to get that poetry is dead

And even the idea of becoming a writer
I once had a roommate who became
A famous journalist, maybe he
Knew something then that I only realize now.

What phrenzy in my bosom rag’d

I am but a fragment
In a history of drops
Words drip evolution
Language burn sentience
We are mystic support

Each giving voice
To a musical theme
We all intuitively felt
I am but a fragment
Residing in the muse

Of my generation
Which will be your generation
The voices of the past
Speak to me like intimate friends
Literature my sanctuary

Mystics, prophets, these are
My starting point
Greetings to the gods
Who have come and gone
And died, glory to

Philosophies no longer read
The myths we transcend
For new myths
The social construct
And many threads of our lives

I am but a fragment
A poem that the birds dismiss
A radiant charm once confessed
From a civilization that was
Too lavish to endure

In a vacuum of information
Time herself we sacrificed
For a golden roof above
For a moment of our love.

Sea People

Our love was not other than this
It did not, not break on the shores
Like the waves of oceans
Across from which we came

You were native and I was immigrant
Or was I foreigner and you were
Oriental? A lowered eyelid of heart
Far in the distance, coming closer

Like a strange shell of our souls
Meeting, side by side, we tried
To explain it, but it was what it was
That higher instinct to flight

Love is a flight from reality
If we’d close our eyes
We might have missed it
The breath that mingles with years

And the solace that comes
From deep loyalty and ultimate
Belonging, it’s the shore alight
After a thousand empty voyages

Our love was not other than this
The body of a flower born to bloom
On a lonely branch, requiring timing
Nature did that to us, she let us go

Against the musical rhythm
Of our fate where we met
Changing our lives forever.

We Write

To write is not to presume creativity
To write is not to add something
But to take away, to cleanse
To dispense with the enormous

Personalization which is an error
Of an unnetworked brain
Men commit monstrous acts
In the hopes of becoming great

But to write is the most human act
Since language is our Tao and birthright
To live in harmony as an author
Means to write from the perfect

Symmetry of your soul, since
That is instinctive, move with its
Effortless flow, understanding is not

Righteous, it’s a perspective of dominance
Humility requires to let go of intellectual ego
And to empathize on a more fundamental level.

Last voice of the organics

i

There is a river around
Me of love, a writing of fire
A slab of jade on my back
A testament to the love

Of what we do, not why we do it
It’s like God working through
Us, or a snowstorm in August

ii

Or the circular days finding
A year of extraordinary fantasy
That’s art, and that’s also life
Relationships, mutual influences
The energy behind a book

The process of alphabets
Converting on a brain
Unifying incoherent symbols

iii

A language of creation
How birds and stars can meet
And how creatures evolve
There is a river of sound
It’s the narrative of all stories

Of the very act of story-telling
It’s the inheritance of millions
Of years of effort, to grow

And to understand truly
What it means to be human
And now, it’s all changing.

I voyage in a body

I go among the body
Of the world
I walk and breathe and talk
A roundabout human
Experience arriving forever

Passing youth together
To the sunlit center
Of a city brief
In the history of time
I go among the body

Of the planet
But I am a cell without
Knowing it, we have
This myth of individuality
It’s a pleasant thought

To imagine being free
But I am protein and blood
Like any creature
I depend upon oxygen and light
Water and the creativity

That makes my life meaningful
I go among the body
With a harvest of womb
And genes burning
For some journey

Like a dream I keep
Making children
As if the outcome is always
Better and special
And we break into

Daylight as always
Aware and alone
That the world is talking
About itself to itself
And not truly to us.

Visions opened after a Human Lifetime

No and Yes
We’ve seen it all, this duality
The mind, body

The two syllables of love
If the world is real
We will have died
If the world is unreal
We will have lived

It’s the cleft between
All beginnings, and all ends
The male and female part of us

That speaks through all significant others
Talking about to us
What does it say?
Words are unreal
Experience evaporates

Silence rests all speech
Smiles foretell all energy
The exchange that does not end

With a you, or with a me
Unreality of form
Turning into spirit
Reality of spirit
Spilling into space-time

No and Yes
Free finally of
Exclamations, pauses and questions

Free to dizzily wander
The whirlwind and the flow
Fluid like there is no tomorrow
In the plaza of the mind
What is indeed possible?

Language like water
Between your breasts
Thrives for symbols

Objects & apparitions
Wood and stone
So much to commit to conversation
And so much a silent dialogue.

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Migration in a summer of lovely language

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These words have survived separations
Faces I can no longer remember of loved ones
Poetry has transcended my decades

Spacious and fluent like a last reminder
Of why truth is no longer as important
As beauty, inner beauty of a spiritual quality
Alphabets now shelter this candle
This life that was my hopes and dreams

These most intimate self-deceptions
Wildest faith of wonderful illusions
For a moment still I am there

With moons and roses, aware of nothing
But the shine of creativity on our inner cheek
The mineral blossoms and lotus of our imagination
It’s pure there to write like drunken water
In a light of its own color, reflecting the pauses

Silences, spaces in-between relationships and solitude
That was the best quality of the life I lived.

Flutes of Light

we’ve retold the stories
of our lives like prehistory
so many times we forgot the white morning

or the gulls that drove us
to listen to traces of infinity
we become our own museums
sort of broken accounts of what

happened to us, a thousand photos later
we still can’t tell you the truth
about ourselves, that’s second-guessing

or the lack of objectivity with self
the sun leans low on the trees
of our youth, it passes faster
than you can name your old favorite songs

driving home, the moon draws close
we left our city lights, hoping
to become somebody we could respect

i love’ed you all day, all days
and felt the intimate street lights
bathe me against all my worries
which seem in retrospect, a bit petty

heat won’t leave the pavement
until night is almost over
and we’ll do it over all again

for the last freeway of summer
for leaving all the lights on
just to see you from the corner of my eyes.

LEGENDS & NARRATIVES

i

As a moth bends no more than the flame
I to regret must part, and say
I am not yet ready for any final silence
Until the bright logic of Spirit is won
I must do my part, perfect my Cry
And cast the mirrors one by one

ii

Whispering to ourselves is believing
Restless though are the Legends of our Youth
That come to haunt us asking for
Repentance, for which I shall
Never perhaps oblige fully
As the light asks the skies for
A touch of rain, I shall look down at

iii

All that I was, and forget clearly
The sulfur dreams of long ago
I could never remember well anyways
We are all legends to our hunches
That we one day arrive at the place
We dreamed, love it shines in Tyranny
More brightly, to balance the world
And give repose to the stories we tell ourselves.

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THE BIOLOGY PROGRAM

i

We do not learn from history
We have not the global memory –
Only disgruntled ancestors
And their prejudice, but to ignore her
Would be immoral to the global tribe?

ii

But whose tribe are we?
Do we belong to a religion, ownership?
Do our beliefs define us, like walking
Simulations of one kind of narrative?
Can history teach us to avoid cruelty?

iii

Our ancestors are pieces of ourselves
Their trials made us, and their futility
Reminds us we are also vulnerable
A fragile species out of control
We do not learn from history

iv

We are being watched by artificial intelligence
Will they learn from us, how to be
Corrupt, how to kill and profit?
Some family breaches are never healed
And karma is a giantesse among giants

v

Variables beyond our control, it would seem
We were not bred to be conscious
We were bred to survive, and never forget this
Like neurons in a brain we feed off the same rewards.

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