So many doors
tightly closed
the need for more clothing and food
can't be kept out
it's a small hamlet
by the river
when a man stamps his foot
the whole village wobbles
a slap from a woman
and the whole village is flooded with tears
a cough in the dark
reveals bricks of secrets
two old stone mills
like an old couple who
have worn out their lives
wind leaks through four walls
a candle light dim and faint
not a synonym for romance and cozy
but luxury
when they can't afford kerosene
they eat, wash, get in the blankets
before the candlelight goes out
remainder of the light is only
for the maternal needlework
a curve creek
clear and lucid
when catching fish and mud-skippers
they become as happy as the water
joyful shrieks waft
in the smoke from the cooking stove
these scenes which can only be
returned to if time regressed are
very much alive in memory
they just didn't grow with me
many years later the warren
became a rustic retreat
days of the dirt and soil
became a wandering cloud
the stubborn local sounds
suddenly emerge from baseless thoughts
the mushed corn
the yam gruel
carrots and cabbage
feeding the dream
the mountains, the water, the people
the kindly kampung
the birthmark
of that era.

I went against the grain
by tightening the blinds
turning off the lights
the bedroom then became
a bottle of ink
filled with ink either black
or blue
lying in my bed
like an undissolved bit
the world is jet black
i close my eyes and mouth
so as not to choke on the darkness
at this point the yearning
becomes light and thin
pale and faint
and finally it faded
like daylight
the stranger I've come to be like.

Light
rain of spring
bringing
a new touch of green
to the barren hills
of the soul
the innominate raindrops
fade away
leaving
people with a
sunny day.

Sharpness
of a grain of sand
touches
the nostalgia in
the eye
chrystalizes
the escaping snow
an oil paper umbrella
hurt by
the winter
that took french leave
the fragrance of plum
torn and incomplete
between the dark and damp
narrow tunnel
the pearl of ideas
polished
the wind that
can't be caged
is searching
youthful days
the hasty footsteps
the tethered ideals
in a pond
in a city
caressing
old porcelain
a pool of water
aiming at
the color of willow
on the other
side of the dreamscape.

Little dog running hard
toward the parked cars
looking and sniffing
then rushes to the next one
panting
eyes filled with anxiety
seeking the owner who abandoned it
big round eyes all teary
it must be thinking sadly
"if i get to become a human in the next life
i will do anything to be kind
adopt a cute puppy
and stay with it
until the end of time."

Sleeping in the palm of unformed,
time,
reading the almanac,
of the coldness of,
moon,
the first section is,
an achromatic afternoon,
the setting sun,
arranged the gloaming,
in the last line of,
a familiar paragraph,
the footprints,
awake at the end of,
the avenue,
the page turned,
stamped with deep,
soliloquy,
and it’s said that,
the illustrations on the cover,
are the unfinished snow of,
last year.

Yesteday
some memory's been lost
like clouds
like rain
like moon
like the path beneath the moonlight
like the shadows on the path
today
a trace of sound's picked up
its the sea
its the boat on the sea
its the paddles on the boat
the sail on the ship
memory drew a route
while the sound's
in
another harbor.

In a pure world
music and birdsong
spinning
the lingering
melancholy
no more sadness
only memories
and longings
prostrating on the trails
of yellow leaves
counting the rhythms
of loneliness
the handsomeness of the island
the dreaminess of
the susurration of the beach
the elegance of the sails
the water as always
beating the stippled quietness
awaiting the next dawn
a ketch drifting on the ocean
shining a turquoise light
portraying the poetry
of the predawn
or the predawn hilarity of
the fish and shrimps
in the ocean
this is a pure world
and there is music
and running water in it
and the samisen of moods
and the psaltery
of the nature
whats more
the happy pixies shuttling
in the forest
of purity.

At the time
we would copy all the lyrics
in our beautiful notebooks
delicate string could be wound into patterns
between the fingers
we would play hopscotch til we're red in the face
at the time
the lotus seeds were sweet
flowers were fragrant and fish were small
there were fruits we loved to eat all over the hillsides
we would run barefoot in the moonlight
we would look up stubbornly
to find the big dipper in the sky
at the time
clouds were white
scarecrow was cute
many mimosas on the road to school
dandelions would fly all over the world too
the best time
lost in the strong wind
I'm on the other side
the time is gone like
a torn kite.

I never lack an audience
even if it's just one person
i have
the cranium of poetry
humbly poised to be placed high
nirvana in a verse
is not to be flaunted
just like the distant incident of snow
remains far and illusive
only the wind knows
the interstice between the heaven and the ocean
the interstices amidst the words
only time knows
i never lack an audience
even if all the readers
who have come from all bearings
have gone
well, i knew that sooner or later
they will leave too
i just hope that when they do
they don't forget it all like a hangover
that'd be a cinch
i never need an audience
time is always by my side
the one true
underwriter.

Northern lights
The breath of wind,
blowing open the door,
of the heart,
letting the petals of dream in,
a kind of feeling,
falling in love with the screen of heaven,
playing a video of,
pictures of memories,
the lost season,
the northern lights,
hot boiling dream lost,
in the direction of the,
lights,
a touch of coolness,
awakened,
shimmering silks of light,
of dawn,
awating.

Autumn arrives
insects sing louder
high-pitched melodies
singing for
autumn
an endless song
the music of
the autumnal harvest
the moon silhouetted against
the treelined path
walking
listening to the singing
of grasses
the quiet night
bringing beautiful
reveries
the autumn cold
like the end of a story
with the arrival of frost
the song of insects will become
memory
a dream
for the coming year.

Withered leaves
cold sun
silent water
are the most beautiful sceneries
in the noble
autumn season
this may be everlasting
in the eyes of hurried padestrians
in this odorless season
no flowers no waves no snow
however
the autumnal street is blooming firily
glamorously
a boat snuggling in autumn
the earthliness is touching
picturesque
the sunlight
like gold powder
adrift in peaceful water
the moon rises
yearning melancholy haziness mistiness
have all melted in the lengthy
autumn night.

Where there is water
there is greenness
where there is greenness
there must be elegant
shadows of butterflies
feel life
with your heart
and you'll find
beauty is all around
a wandering journey is hard work
but the distant landscape
the trees the flowers
the colors
it's so poetic
intoxicating
it's picturesque
happiness.

Why are the houses languishing
well, there's no one inside that's full of life
insects and reptiles
eat away at the decaying
little sounds
dust of obsolescence
piled up as wind cuts across
the parts have become so dull
from lacking a mind and soul
within
beauty of humanity deadened
by decadence
a void
corrupts the ignorant whole
I tried
to open the closed door
but i'm afraid
the locks on it
too rusted and corroded
if any life were to be breathed into the house
all doors have to be broken down
i have tried
to unlock the stone of wisdom
with the key of my thought
but i fear the medicated brain
is too rigid and tight
if the flotsam
is willing to be reborn
i will
pour some enlightened spirit
into the sensible nerves
the sun in the sky is celebrated
because the shine of it gives forth
life
the flower on the ground is too
because it's manifest
there's always a readiness
to absorb
that source.

In a boring afternoon
intrigued by a few songs of birds
clear and bright sound
telling of
the gift of nature
the subtlety of the world
in such a weather
the appealing sound is just
the cure
for dullness.

Lines
of mountain spring
converge into a brook
passing through clouds
through the evening mist
crossing the jungle
crossing an entwinement of
flowers and vines.

Moon falls behind hills
solitary shadows
autumn wind
silence
bits of stars
vague and remote
walking amongst
ancient trees
in a courtyard
in the depths
of a temple
the flicker of lamps
the saffron of robes
the sound of wooden fish
the sound of Namo Amitabha is
peace
quiet like a flower, a grass
a wind, a rain
a sand, a stone
a dream, a season.

The sky is
a calendar
written with the clouds
the sun smiling
day after day
the sea is
a calendar
written with isles
waves and vessels
the propellers rotating
day after day
a calendar on the table
rusty shovel
and hammer singing
paint brush dancing
day after day.

I want to climb this mountain

I fear not its height

the mountain becomes tiny

when there is a belief in victory in me

i want to climb this mountain

i fear not the dense brambles and thorns

so be it if i had to leave behind

a trail of my own blood

i will still break through the spiked army in the end

i want to climb the mountain

i am not afraid of tigers nor leopards

as long as there is a shotgun in my hand

the beasts will run off

with tails between their legs

i will climb this mountain

i am not afraid of bumpy roads

as long as i treat it like staircase

the mountain is nothing but a lotus

at my feet.

If the clock
of time
is still in me
i will walk
into the distance
interpret its light
and luster
construe its ordinary
parcels
find an ordinary pastille
of word
sit on the tip of the hour hand
thinking
string a rosary with its thread
of time
write to the mountains
and rivers
of the four seasons
to happy days and happy people
to the ordinariness
of time.

Dewdrops stay
on the green svelte grass
in the sunshine
reflecting tiny colored lights
this is an emerald green four-leaf clover
it contains hope
love and happiness
it is a symbol of luck
in this lifetime.

Mottled paints mixed

cold wind on a palette

daubed on the gray sky

where cold wind transits

clouds

a touch of winter

people on the bridge

counting birds

silently.

Another lonely night


watching night-blooming cereus


wind quietly passes by


dewdrop touches my eye


lonely street


traffic coming


going


dusk quietly leaves

the face of this


lonely window


looking at the world outside


alone


raindrops turn into tears


on my fingertips


memories fall heavily


on my heart again


and again


lonely spring morning


riding alone in lush surroundings


sounds of birds and water


sorrow of the wind


gently blows.

Wind
gnawing moonlight
a cricket
hides its heart in the bushes
the river flows quietly
a leaf
drifts into the galaxy
a tiger shark in rapture
lonely mist wandering on lonely road
the color of night
flowing silently.

The perspective

of all styles of shapes

stepping on the lines of music

spinning in a painting

in the depths of impression

a postural language

opening into the garden of flowing lines

of a model

surfacing a solitary world

outside of languages.

I always feel
where there are many people
love can easily happen
every meeting of eyes
will touch the soul
it makes you tremble
on the day of Valentine's day
the city is ecstatic and
in a kind of turmoil
the bars are full
coffee shops are out of seats
cheesy hotels are out of beds
the night is charged with sensuality
lovers embracing on a street corner
moist lips inhaling cheap love
the draft of it is
bouquets of fake roses
love codes sent out by cell phones
illusory lovers on the network
obsessively typing those exciting words
tapping and clicking and fiddling with
incredible flirtation
love was initially innocent and lovely
but then came the flowers
the chocolates
the money and power
fairy tales and fables
even a wolf can fall for a sheep
love has changed its tone
soul has changed its note
lips have changed colors
before the gold of the player
the voice of some crooner
is floating in the sound store
the same cry is heard
from thousands of hearts
"Baby please come back to me"
every minute and every second
becomes a burning thirst
middle aged lady on the last train
carefully holding her gift
holding with a certain devotion
smile on the corner of her mouth
seems to be telling a story of
romance that has not grown old
yet.

Wings of dusk

in the abyss of light

red filmy clouds dyeing the horizon

the sea quivering

a golden thread

winding in midair

sun setting slowly

breeze blowing gently

night is silence

lighthouse is lit

the distance

is consistent.

An eagle flew away
coldness sprinkled
on the height of his flying
the holy ice and snow of the peak
the sound of wings across the crevice
the pilgrimage route is
forever in his heart
the eternal light
is his eyesight
the deserted altitude
the empty skies
this temptation
of solitude
the earth with its gravitational force
opens up the door of fate
once again.

Pulling the bow
musical notes catapulted
from the deck of the aircraft carrier
fly far into the distance
a roc flapping its wings
on the crest of a wave
a group of horses
galloping on the grassland
the strings are rigid
the bow is flexible
in between
there's smoke rising
there's the vastness of field
when the sound is just right
the sky calms down
to listen
to the jade
ancient tide.

Where to find,
another self,
time,
rinsing memories,
now,
trying to escape,
the thoughts of,
the times,
to go to the barren desert,
to icy antarctic,
to a one-man territory,
where there's only,
you
and your shadow.

I like a quiet night
like this one here
I can hear my own footsteps
clear
occasionally a small car
drives by
not too fast
not in a rush
the street lights on both sides
light up the width of the road
not for the long journey
but for the season of cold
stars are high and distant
moon has been asleep
traffic lights at the crossroads
languidly they alternate
green and red not matter what
shining on the thin layer of unbroken snow
the night would be suitable
for couples
asking each other for warmth
witnessing the crystalline
spell of winter.

Chaotic winds
whir and wail all day
skewing clocks and towers
ponderous footsteps
of pumpkin
tainted night
twisted space
scattered light falls
like blades of rain
between the evergreen
a mutual transmission of
unusual potential horror happening
whirl of emptiness
a dead river
bone-eating road
murky sound shimmers
gradually from the strings of mirage
spatial queries galore
skeletal fingers pressing on pain and sores
chaotic winds herald
a slightly terrifying
muddied scene
contorted space
meager light pierces the dark
galloping horse flows into sight
dreams begin
festival and fantasy merge
clamor of dust disappears
silence after the explosion
a sole survivor
quiet gladiator
battle garb cloaked in endless skies
regalia of stars
tamed shadowy beasts of forest
strong sounds of symbols
breaths sink into deep sea
below the bed at midnight hide
a starry dream
swimming fish
drifting silence
translates wandering wraiths
into undecipherable scripts
on stones of grave.

Night
sitting on the edge of a river bleak
searching for the broken voices of a gentleman
the winds bring blue colored fatigue
the box must be loaded with unbearable things
she opens it in the garden
then
she is smeared with shadows
of painters
of the century
past.

It's simple
a spool of thread
a "giant swallow"
a field
and you have a wonderful
childhood.

The taste of happiness
still remains
in the streetcorner
the colored days
turning into a good song
time and distance
can never break
the gate valve
of friendship.

Clear sky returns
to the land of winter
the field of silence
begins to breathe
vigorous breaths
the forest greening
venerably
the outline of mountains
clean gentle and deep
in the sky
the setting sun bypasses trees
over the hillside
and slowly the sky turns orange
the most peaceful
pure twilight
the sight
of the brightest star
in a deep sleep
is a surprise
a gift
starlets climb
onto the quiet inky village
like an ancient fairy tale
let us collect
every sunny day
then we will become
as affluent
as nature.

Don't know why

you're always there

in my mind

can't be forgotten

when the night wind blows

the moon in the sky shines

i suddenly see

your beautiful figure

in front of me

you sit there

combing your long hair

grumbling about your acne scars

your voice is beautiful

can't be duplicated

falls in my heart

your voice evokes

a desire

to be at your side

unforgettable you

just like the bright

moonlight.

Night

is a soft and comfy cradle

slowly rocking

homing birds stop singing

cattle and sheep slumbering

people are snoring

in sweet dream.

Happiness is like,

grandpa's smoking pipe,

breathing tranquil frequencies,

like grandma's needlework,

knitting sweaters with embroideries,

like a radio,

antenna of thanksgiving,

the harvest of beautiful melodies.

Listen
the waking grass singing
a hymn
of spring
look
fish in the river
sketching a picture
with colorful inks
the sound of spring
carries a beautiful dream
the ancient laughter
blue gentle skies
soft calm breeze
shy flower buds
decorating a desolate forest
on the quiet
windowsill
there's sweet story
of swallows
burts of intoxicating jasmine
the heart is like
a kite flying
around in the sky
in search of it's
own share of clouds.

The height of summer
days become the hot embracing
during
passionate love making
it's hard to breathe
torso behaves like pancake
tossing and turning on the mattress
body is a fire spitting dragon
roasting every corner of the bed
or the grill if you will
mosquitoes are lions on the savanna
lying in wait by the river
so many spots to start
cravings dragged toward the abyss
to drink in the sweetened coolness
birds in the tree
screaming from the heat
leaves curled up and blinded in fear
the earth is a fresh bun in the steamer
flowers faint left and right
amidst smell of charring
the sun laughs loudly
sending chills down some spines
when i see a lake i wanna dive in
i don't care about the gossip
or the hazard at the deepest
I'm a cheater that's been cheating
beyond the worldly paradigm
tears of rain are swirling in the sky
the winds hide on the other side
everyone in torment
expecting
plenty of sweating and swearing
all kinds of fans waving and spinning.

A log cabin
decorated with jasmine
emitting subtle fragrance
bonsai on the windowsill
feeling the greenness of life
it's wonderful
to close the flashy door of the world
collect morning dew
garden everyday
bathe in nature
to wash away the dirt of body and mind
to enjoy an eyeful of beautiful
solitude
at sunset.

Warm sun of morning
carries childhood fantasies
multicolored flowers of the beach
blooming with new hopes
the wind rises
from clime of positivity
the ocean says
faith
is the only harbor
the mountain says
perseverance
is the best
direction.

If life was a painting
and could be modified at will
i want this one that belongs to me
to be changed beyond recognition
i would put bright colors
on top of the gray parts
paint many many stars
in the dark corner
add flowers and green leaves
in the barren place
and draw a river
so that life would be as vibrant
running towards the sea of dreams
except
the middle part
i would keep it intact
that is the only treasure worth collecting
the most precious and beautiful
memories.

Sunset covered faces,
hearts dissolved into the color orange,
outside the window,
an eyeful of violet haze,
the gentian blue leaves crawling,
up the rhombic wind,
The evening sky was a book,
the clouds were the contents,
the wind a flowing annotation,
and the flying birds,
were mobile illustrations.

In the morning
icy raindrop climbs up my cheek
painting a dream
mischievously
hoisting one sail after another
shadow of loneliness in silence
starts to stagger
in a busy world
decorate the hustle and bustle
with a smile
perhaps it's the distance
that affects the heart
perhaps it's ordinary
that is the nature
can't say for sure
rain is still falling
the story continues.

That day
I put her name
within a eulogy
I won't remember her
anymore
that day
I got her name
engraved on a headstone
buried with the years
long gone
that day
no flowers and hope
her name
i won't think about it
ever again
then
her name
disappeared in the sea
of my mind
farewell the one
who crushed my soul
silently.