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Romanticised, phantasised, moments and actions
which reality could not hold,
yet, force of desire makes manifest.

Sleepwaking in a walking dream,
as a thousand echoed universes flow by,
each alone, yet glowing in the brilliance
of a million thoughts and feints and
flowing emotions, occupying the fragile mind
from the nothingness held within.
 Sep 2017 Chi Zhang
han
Vincent Van Gogh told us
normality is a paved road,
a comfortable walk,
but that's not what I want
I want to dance in a field of sunflowers
I want to breathe blue skies and sunshine
I want to climb mountains
Therefor there are no paved roads for me
Only the ones less traveled
and they will make all the difference
September 20th ~Han
 Sep 2017 Chi Zhang
Poetoftheway
for Eléa

<•

feel you my love, between my thumb and forefinger ,
beyond obsession, have rubbed them,
thumb and forefinger tips pebble smooth,
lying there, lying to myself, saying don't know why,
probably the standard ****** busybodies annoying,
no big deal, just the chocolate stuffing of day to day living,
but I know better, I'm home after 23:00, in bed alone,
you love are at a milonga ce soir,
and I, still rubbing them glossy shiny,
unconsciously, subconsciously, consciously, stubbornly

my light, shut off, grab the silky top sheet,
between the same thumb and forefinger,
pull it up, to under the neck,
comfort covering my chilled bare chested unheated heart,
and the rubbing yet, gets stronger, the sheet sensation,
an unforeseen, trigger warning

the sensation, at last, dulling and in the dark,
the fingers worn, body worn, and the worn cold admissions
easy slip out, worn by denial, a sash across the chest-ache,
the fingers instrumental, now more useless from imprecision

I know, I know,
fingers are memorizing touch, memorizing memories,
at the crossroads of two Burgundy country roads intersecting,
because when no one is seeing, no one you want,
that no one won't be joining you later, ya see,
just the normal nite dreams

with that self-same tireless thumb and forefinger,
pull a tissue from the box hid in the second drawer to blot the
wet spots on the pillow, can't be having that,
no one, no,
she wouldn't like that,
and you
nonetheless and all the more,
surprised
cause no one told you,
you didn't know that,

*fingers could weep
2:05am
9/21/17

please read
https://hellopoetry.com/Eleajane/
 Sep 2017 Chi Zhang
Victor Hugo
I love the evenings, passionless and fair, I love the evens,
Whether old manor-fronts their ray with golden fulgence leavens,
In numerous leafage bosomed close;
Whether the mist in reefs of fire extend its reaches sheer,
Or a hundred sunbeams splinter in an azure atmosphere
On cloudy archipelagos.

Oh, gaze ye on the firmament! a hundred clouds in motion,
Up-piled in the immense sublime beneath the winds' commotion,
Their unimagined shapes accord:
Under their waves at intervals flame a pale levin through,
As if some giant of the air amid the vapors drew
A sudden elemental sword.

The sun at bay with splendid thrusts still keeps the sullen fold;
And momently at distance sets, as a cupola of gold,
The thatched roof of a cot a-glance;
Or on the blurred horizon joins his battle with the haze;
Or pools the blooming fields about with inter-isolate blaze,
Great moveless meres of radiance.

Then mark you how there hangs athwart the firmament's swept track,
Yonder a mighty crocodile with vast irradiant back,
A triple row of pointed teeth?
Under its burnished belly slips a ray of eventide,
The flickerings of a hundred glowing clouds in tenebrous side
With scales of golden mail ensheathe.

Then mounts a palace, then the air vibrates--the vision flees.
Confounded to its base, the fearful cloudy edifice
Ruins immense in mounded wrack;
Afar the fragments strew the sky, and each envermeiled cone
Hangeth, peak downward, overhead, like mountains overthrown
When the earthquake heaves its hugy back.

These vapors, with their leaden, golden, iron, bronzèd glows,
Where the hurricane, the waterspout, thunder, and hell repose,
Muttering hoarse dreams of destined harms,--
'Tis God who hangs their multitude amid the skiey deep,
As a warrior that suspendeth from the roof-tree of his keep
His dreadful and resounding arms!

All vanishes! The Sun, from topmost heaven precipitated,
Like a globe of iron which is tossed back fiery red
Into the furnace stirred to fume,
Shocking the cloudy surges, plashed from its impetuous ire,
Even to the zenith spattereth in a flecking scud of fire
The vaporous and inflamèd spaume.

O contemplate the heavens! Whenas the vein-drawn day dies pale,
In every season, every place, gaze through their every veil?
With love that has not speech for need!
Beneath their solemn beauty is a mystery infinite:
If winter hue them like a pall, or if the summer night
Fantasy them starre brede.
 Sep 2017 Chi Zhang
Kahlil Gibran
And a woman who held a babe against her ***** said, "Speak to us of
Children."

And he said:

Your children are not your children.

They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,

And though they are with you, yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts.

For they have their own thoughts.

You may house their bodies but not their souls,

For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams.

You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.

For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.

The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you
with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.

Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;

For even as he loves the arrow that flies, so He loves also the bow that
is stable.
 Sep 2017 Chi Zhang
Rumi
I’m drenched
in the flood
which has yet to come

I’m *******
in the prison
which has yet to exist



Not having played
the game of chess
I’m already the checkmate



Not having tasted
a single cup of your wine
I’m already drunk



Not having entered
the battlefield

I’m already wounded and slain



I no longer
know the difference
between image and reality



Like the shadow
I am

And

I am not
 Sep 2017 Chi Zhang
Rumi
Both light and shadow
are the dance of Love.

Love has no cause;
it is the astrolabe of God’s secrets.

Lover and Loving are inseparable
and timeless.



Although I may try to describe Love
when I experience it I am speechless.

Although I may try to write about Love
I am rendered helpless;
my pen breaks and the paper slips away
at the ineffable place
where Lover, Loving and Loved are one.



Every moment is made glorious
by the light of Love.
 Sep 2017 Chi Zhang
Rumi
A lover asked his beloved,
Do you love yourself more
than you love me?



The beloved replied,
I have died to myself
and I live for you.



I’ve disappeared from myself
and my attributes.
I am present only for you.



I have forgotten all my learning,
but from knowing you
I have become a scholar.



I have lost all my strength,
but from your power
I am able.



If I love myself
I love you.
If I love you
I love myself.
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