Zeyu - Hello Poetry

At day’s closing, I felt a discomfort within So I drove alone, ascending an ancient plain Through autumn’s veil, unfolds a neon sea And I searched miles and miles for its edge

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Sep 23, 2020

Sep 23, 2020 at 11:23 PM UTC

Autumn View

At day’s closing, I felt a discomfort within So I drove alone, ascending an ancient plain Through autumn’s veil, unfolds a neon sea And I searched miles and miles for its edge

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All the words unspoken, were wrapped in conceits Tied up in scarlet twines Sealed well Like golden joineries or bamboo’s crease Inside, two’s secrets Unwrap each carefully Press your ear to hear: Wind, memories, And Peach Blossom Spring

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Jul 24, 2020

Jul 24, 2020 at 4:43 AM UTC

Letters

All the words unspoken, were wrapped in conceits Tied up in scarlet twines Sealed well Like golden joineries or bamboo’s crease Inside, two’s secrets Unwrap each carefully Press your ear to hear: Wind, memories, And Peach Blossom Spring

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A ******** son, born in the Five Grains Field he first learned to crawl on the yellow earth where mint and sorghum thrived side by side then he learned to walk on ancient dikes learned to run among wild southern geese he learned to rein his granduncle's mule (it leads him through those trackless fields) But he always loved running on millet stalks (when grass bends under his weight) and through and through the mountains until his feet scraped by uneven stones until they bleed through the earth he stumps until his mother lured him with supper's warmth: —until life was siphoned by rattles and snarls of brutish machines and a confusing tongue and men chanting to the flags of the Rising Sun "One question is all I ask, lusterless swain, where do the men sleep when the sun sets?" No words were spoken, and no more shall when the bayonet pierced between his lips —a soft tongue dropped with untethered flesh When invaders aimed at his thatched hut —where he first cried and searched for his father where his grandfather died and his mother born— he turned around and ran (no matter shelling or the swooshing bullets- nor the callous fire!) to find that old mule brayed for his master they ran into the sorghums, the blue mist-- vanished in silence and mint's vinous scent I never learned that child who loved running was also me: in ten-thousand kinds of winds that blew through the endless yellow earth my great grandmother's mother loved a bandit and gave him a place by her bedside hearth Many years later a swain will roam the same fields to see that unmarked grave, and blossoming sorghums.

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Jun 18, 2020

Jun 18, 2020 at 1:35 AM UTC

Yellow Earth

A ******** son, born in the Five Grains Field he first learned to crawl on the yellow earth where mint and sorghum thrived side by side then he learned to walk on ancient dikes learned to run among wild southern geese he learned to rein his granduncle's mule (it leads him through those trackless fields) But he always loved running on millet stalks (when grass bends under his weight) and through and through the mountains until his feet scraped by uneven stones until they bleed through the earth he stumps until his mother lured him with supper's warmth: —until life was siphoned by rattles and snarls of brutish machines and a confusing tongue and men chanting to the flags of the Rising Sun "One question is all I ask, lusterless swain, where do the men sleep when the sun sets?" No words were spoken, and no more shall when the bayonet pierced between his lips —a soft tongue dropped with untethered flesh When invaders aimed at his thatched hut —where he first cried and searched for his father where his grandfather died and his mother born— he turned around and ran (no matter shelling or the swooshing bullets- nor the callous fire!) to find that old mule brayed for his master they ran into the sorghums, the blue mist-- vanished in silence and mint's vinous scent I never learned that child who loved running was also me: in ten-thousand kinds of winds that blew through the endless yellow earth my great grandmother's mother loved a bandit and gave him a place by her bedside hearth Many years later a swain will roam the same fields to see that unmarked grave, and blossoming sorghums.

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