Subservience to the Sun


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Xiao Wei, when I feel your happiness

Radiate to me, I know it’s not something I can catch

It’s just your energy of action


That transforms me by extension of contact

With you, the midnight street of my life

Does not feel as lonely any more


Though I must accept my own darkness

In your life I see a part of the world’s truth

I am not young like your sturdy walk


I do not strive quite, like you stalk your future

Like a crouching tiger with long black hair

I study your posture and look for your mood


Xiao Wei, I will never know if it’s raining

In California, because when I think of you

I only can witness a golden orange sun


Hit me like fabulous lutes and peacocks

Of morning in the waves, of noon in the gardens

And if I seem too interested, then let it be my own lack.

It is a terrible thing to be so open 

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I like people too much
But God, how lonely it is to do so
They fail you like how their goals
Supersede their interpersonal ethics

If I didn’t love others so much
I’d be much happier
And where I am now
The clouds are flowering

And I’m able to see the lifetime of
Each one of them, the face of their stars
And for me, poetry is not the evasion of life
But the processing of it, prose has such

Bad characters, they are flawed
But poetry speaks of the full subjective weight
Of ideas and emotions and people
Narrative and timeline is not something

I can afford, I’ve had enough of time and space
I’d much rather create in the ether
Where I can proudly create
Let me live, love and say it

Well in good sentences
That’s all I ask, is it too much?

Poetry and you Leave the same Lasting Impression 

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Poetry and you Leave the same Lasting Impression

It’s not necessary to say that I loved you
Because the entire universe
Conspired to help me find you
And each day it conspires in us such a harmony
And if imagination is more

Important in our relationship, than knowledge
I shut my eyes and all the world
Drops away, and it’s just us
If I’m a victim of introspection
You bring me back again and again

To the real world your feminine pragmatism
Assures me is the important one
I know, my poetry is a tyrannical discipline
It’s not affording you a good lifestyle
However hypnotized I am by its workings

I often find myself watching you
As you eat a piece of fruit or share a conversation
So darling, if the moon smiled
She would no doubt resemble you
It’s not necessary to say that I love you each day

But I still do anyways, it makes my
Lungs dilate with the onrush of breath
That I’m a part of the scenery
Air, mountains, trees, people, thought
Life affords me just enough raw materials

To create the reality I want
To be acutely aware of for the rest of my life.

Becoming acutely aware of all that I took for granted ##SundayBlogShare #poetry


Becoming acutely aware of all that I took for granted

Someone, somewhere
Can understand me
I’ll never meet them
Not be loved like they could love me

I’ve so much to learn
About finding the right people to love
God, but life is loneliness
Despite all friendships made

Inspite of grinning faces and passing stages
‘Parties’ with no purpose in truth
Loneliness of the soul well
It’s an artistic condition some


Suffer from it more than others
Like allergies, a more unique brain
Someone, somewhere
Has a brain a little more like mine

I’ll never meet them, but sometimes
Knowing that they exist, helps me
Get through the day, writing
Like an unabridged journal from me to you


It’s overpowering and horrible to be self-conscious
Making up narrative and plots, inventing them
All the time, like spirit-chatter
Why so festive, why so gloomy
Because my inner voice is powerful.

Author’s Note:

This is a tribute to all human beings who suffer from the condition known as “poet’s brain”, please share it on facebook, twitter and other social media. There is some evidence that writers, artists and especially poets have more challenges regulating their emotions, lifestyle, anxiety and subsequent consequences of struggles with mental illness sometimes leading to breakdowns, and even to premature deaths by suicide.
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Dead Poets’ Legacy


I’ve been stalked by God and Suns
Haunted by wild furies and ghosts
Loved by nature’s shyest beasts
Adored by words slick in subjectivity

I’ve drunk the magic of life
In all her deep-velvet verities
And the fabulous beauty of even
Despair, and the psychic knot of tragedy

I’ve been visited by calamity
Survived through bankrupt bed-ridden
Poverty, seen the ceremony of
Heart-break unfold in slow scrutiny

I’ve loved those conversations
Among the ruins, as if that was also
Part of my destiny, but as a Buddhist
I’ve taken it all in stride, and in a whirlwind

Of havoc and the empathy that comes
After significant suffering, I can only say
I carry with me the legacy of poets
I’ve read carefully those who committed suicide

I’ve felt their prominent warped humanity
And learned from their last grip on romance
I’ve been stalked by Metaphysics and Death
A tentative existentialism sweet as

Writing poems on napkins, when nothing else
Is available, I gave heavenward and married
Art it seemed, when all friends and lovers left me
Poetry is what I fed upon, to survive

How shall I tell you the story then?
Of how my retrograde stars nudged me?
Or how the mild light enfolds as I stooped
A lonely guest in this anonymous world?



I shut mine eyes and all the world drops dead
Though gold and silver they never die
Life goes on waltzing with stars yellow and red

Till the dreams run moon-struck
And creation whispers overhead
(I think I made you up inside my head)

Where the oceans rise and forests burn
And planets are corrupted for a few centuries
By Man the destroyer, cities of shame

Where nature hangs her head in civil disobedience
And machines calculate how to
Win back her trust, before it’s too late

I think evolution outperformed God
To make such an arrogant creature as Man.




I have lived through a dynasty of blindfolds
With blue currents in my veins
The feeling of being ‘different’
What I to make of these contradictions?
I learn mandarin, I wear white cuffs


I learn to bow low, my heart
Filled with disorganized unlocalized prayers
O Soul, and such disorganization!
My stars are flashing like
Terrible numerals of my intuition


The choices I have made, unmade
The spirit of valedictory pangs
Must follow us all, like memory
Memory’s stiff formality of failed prophecies
Her bandages to self-image, her mockeries
And the terrible breathing of ill-health
Some things could not have been predicted


I have lived through a dynasty of rareness, then?
Being myself, an ordinary creator in littleness
I feel as if I’ve trespassed stupidly
Across my fate, like an unwelcome guest
Or colonized a new form of ignorance
Settled in neurological patterns of
The most dire selfishness, until I am
Terrified of what I have become


I learn to accept malignancy slower than others?
Swimming with angels in apprehension
I struggle at the limits of language
Ready to bleed light again into my
Self-sufficient darkness, her unidentifiable calls


Here there is an immortality
In the self-talk that loves to suffer
I move away from dampening vibrations in a hurry
For such salt-sweetness of surrealism
Leads nowhere, but to some sport of doom.




I slept on you like a bent finger
With the world’s love against me
I was the finger-length of all love
All innovation and ascended
To a dream-interpretation of
The ultimate lucid content


I shone with you like I had never before –
Attending to life without theory
Without unnecessary belief
Our sentiments were the act of sharing
So close a bond we offered Life
Like guests, the tapestry of
Our private collection of treasures
These valentine-faces, and beautifully generous


We stood in dimensions without
Grief, regret or anger: not a trace
We shuffled into Spring with threaded
Kindness, inconspicuous endurance


Loving the blind journey as one guards
A white shadow of protection
Our lives served a White Sun
Of a benevolent Garden of Gifts
Our only Tree of Knowledge were
The last fruits of compassion
At the end of all existence.



You might as well wave to
Fire and Flower, to sun and alter
The passing dazzle of seasons
Well, the years are catching up with you
Time is shooting star-petals across
Your mind’s eye, secure for
A Diamond stare, astounding generations
There is no slowing of progress
An artificial intelligence permutes
The feel of the future, so –
Will we organics one day be
Fuel to the legends of the extinct?
Must not all creatures one day perish?
You might as well wave to
Ocean and Paradigm, to the world
We leave behind is already gone
Life well, it changed you in a heartbeat
With an orange core, you have
Overtaken the memory of yourself.



To his house the dreamers
Come to barter endlessly
He builds his mask of Utopia
Waiting for a better world
For right conditions, for images
Of Light and Air, something
To substantiate claims of the existence
Of Divinity, more than Angels
Or the world’s eclipse of signs
To his mind he summons
The Fortunes of Faith, however
They may be, Points of Eden
Towards a Dawn in those eyes
Whose color is of the future
A soldier of life who would not fight
But create, make art, thrive on
Invisible food fostered by simplicity.



Open-mouthed we cried for a
Baby-God, for a golden child
To marry the sunsets with the
Lands from which we came!

We cried for our Manifest-love
To be born into a better world
With short-comings and impoverished
We sought to be lifted by

An unknown dream, deeply familiar
And elusive, we gilded the fires
Of creation in our minds until
Pregnancy awoke us from our slumber

And that was it, the greatest day
At least, that is the part we most remember
The Times are Tidy when we feel lucky
To be a Hero for a day to someone.



There is no map of trees Just as
There is no History of lifetimes
We are ‘free’ to experience here
The French window ajar
Another restless rainy day!
Let the silver dew rise
Let the white mists roll
Let them say what they will –
There is no height like Eyes
No soulfulness like, pure kindness
We are sleepers some of us
Should we forget to sleep through
The years, of mornings and afternoons
There is no replay button, no reset
Only the silence after dreaming.

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We were Sculptors when we lived
When we were alive, we Perceived
Beauty palpable as air, striving as water
Mutable were our art-forms
We loved as if there were no Tomorrow
Weighty, with visions of wisdom
In our Body, we gave ourselves to Nature
Totally, hands moving like Priests
In flesh, in bronze, in wood, in stone
Embroidering our love for the World
Again and again, as if that was all that mattered
Making music, from points of Eden
Writing pristine alphabets of significant
Hellos and goodbyes, all meeting each other
This hid our extreme fragility following
The new moon’s curves, down to her epiphanies
That all Diminish, or goes insane attempting
To reach Divinity, eyes the color of dreams.

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Sugar is a Necessary Prey

Hourly the lamp headed-nymphs Whisper to me through The lily root of my subconscious There is little shelter From the flutes of language Fish-mouthed mantras of poetry They flame in me frog-hoped The reebit of time’s fugitive Unfaithfulness to the … Continue reading

Dream Snatchers of Ghost Month


We tried to give them happy names
These our white fists of old
We cried in shame for how

The clean water of our dear dreams unrolled
Love, love, and well – pure tiredness
With fires where we wept

The sweetest common tears
And thought ourselves alone
We tried to give them satisfactory homes

The poems we hid in cringes
When nobody looked, we spied the world
Holding the hands of bodiless owls

Our soul crept her gaze into the heart
Of all vulnerable things, like melting subtle
Understanding, compassion so smooth

That our letters to death would not rattle us
We found peace in those slow aching years
Like a dumb fish, blindfolded

We led ourselves to the infinite
A carbon bird that would flutter and glitter
To lick all melodies back to stuffed expression
The red last burst of our own particles of doom.

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Tell Me What you See In It


All morning the sky was high and blue
Free as the taste of strawberries
The total in my notebook

Has amounted to a grand surrender
Of plans, of desire, of attachment
But here I am listening

To the breeze
It leaps without a care
I reach among the leaves

With a practiced devotion
For the thumb of foreigners
For love, in those familiar places

All evening the sky was tinged a yellowed-bronze
Free as the shimmering of the ocean
With cataracts for God’s lonely eyes

The total in my notebook
Still reads: “lyric of love in orange and black”
For the holy book always had

A white ambiguity to evolution’s template
And here I am watching
How whispering tattoos melt on tangerines
That smell like the loving life.

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