The Ghost Dancer

Sleep Hae.mi, to rest your pulsating care

Where tears are for the past

Taking on an unsuspecting universe

I’ll see you thrive in independence

 

Comely with the rows of maternal jewels

Cherished by friends, beloved to strangers

Rest Hae.mi, from the wonder of it all

Where change is as lullaby and a signal

 

Of all that is yet still to come

Where a woman knows her art

And the hospitality of her own heart

And how much to give, and how much to keep

 

Festive Hae.mi, forgetting to eat

In a manic row with destiny

Faery fingers, soft platonic mildness

You are budding now, out from the mists of Autumn

 

Industrious, not wandering, thinking in new words

Where we can afford neither peace, nor ignorance in our dreamy lives

Hae.mi, the wildness of care, how well I know thee

To organize the mess of serendipity

 

To feed the bright array of synchronicity

Where on the floor of a nude sauna in your mind

I am brought to life for a few poems

To witness the birth of new beauty

 

Where your life borders gold with studs of silver

And art and technical proficiency meet

In your fate at the feet of your most puissant destiny.

With great delight I sat in her shadow

(Alternative name: Shadow dancers)

I’m going to fathom the Korean psyche

Once and fully, for an era of emotional revelry

Hae.mi, deliver me from the ritual

 

 

Where discovery is the fertilizer

Of the red blood in the rawest apple

Your cheeks to string me with ornamental majesty

 

 

At the emergency of poetry

At the threshold of clairvoyance

There is an empathy between your breasts

 

 

Where time is dense and flighty in-between

The feathers of the long agonizing months

The short breathless cycles taking you back into the artistic source

 

 

There, poetry is an oxygen of embracing

Irrationally more than we can have

With more moistness of vision that we can comprehend

 

 

A last luxury of feeling something sublime

Hae.mi, the trees will sink their trunks deeper this winter

And I will stand in solitude among their tall haloes

 

 

Pregnant with what comes next in woman’s world

A lily of the valleys of time and hope.

These Heroics of May

The sun is alive in my belly/
My navel of blowing May
The soft gold of my birth-month
I’ve waited for this

Over fields where I turned/
Your bronze name in my head
Over and over, like buds and springs
Of all the loves I have ever witnessed

The high stars maintain/
The dripping hope of last-songs
Today’s melody, well it’s for Spring
I am fixed in her like a Galaxy

The secret of her fragile skies is this –
That I’ve had a shinning head
For outrageous dreams
As the smallest movements in my mouth

May is for heroic kissing/
For lovers who burn with lucid plundering
To build new lives
Where we have once been cheated
To replace that with fertility.

The Wrong Ends of the Rainbow

At the brink of extinction/
The author forgets themselves
The scar tissue from which we write
Breathes the wounds of the world
It’s not unusual how at the heart

Of every poem, is a journey/
At the tips of discovery
The world changes by how
It is perceived by us, let’s make it
An art, to see the world with new eyes

Darlings, I’ve read your poems/
Like the same old world we look through
With the endless interest of living
We find use in discussing the same things
At the ends of turmoil, ruin, transformation

The author is the story, there is nothing else/
Worth relating, I write out of my charms
And spells and happy western skydrops
Countries of narratives, I couldn’t even begin

To truly describe, how the light cools/
At the idea of last incidents, forever loves.

The New Girl

One month left, before summer
I feel the weeks before Flowers
As an epiphany of dead grandmothers
Lost love, the usual things, that matter –
My life is being swarmed by little necessities
The aches that creep, the particulars
That make the years blur, I know for you
It’s hard imagine such a day will ever come
So lucid with your youthful form
Bursting in on ideas, hitchhiking your way
To maturity, every word you say
Lives desperate in me, for unanswered clues
To the meaning of life, hidden in your smile
I haven’t yet organized your impact upon me
So I let it simmer there, while we study
The unknowable truth of why I crave
The Philip Glass shattering of the insides
Of hope, that I relive destiny in you.

The Poetic Dilemma

Words answer my April
Words answer my every month
Every state, has a Window or a Minister

My feeling are of Two bodies
My soul and its liberty persist
I know it then, by the numb look

Of Neighbors, and the lost delight
Of Lovers, where is the Bee and blush?
For it is not yet Spring – and I am lone

Language is my last successor of pain
I am trapped in its Vitality
Self-Obliterating is the choir

Who that visits the Night is my poetic chore
Words answer my April
I make words for every hour

There is no Education in poetry
Only pure-feeling, as ashamed as courtesans
Here I contrast all currencies.