Jewelled dragons
Hover on glass wings,
Caressing the silky air
In an irredecent cascade
And rapidly ponders
The sky

Steel grey streets
Wool grey sky
White-gold tree,
It's fall branches high
Silver beads cascade
Ink puddles collide
Crystal rivers parade
As though the white-gold cried

The past unfurls
With silver memories
Like messy cloth,
Tarnished or frayed;
Each life woven with yours
And so many paths crossing
Twining over and under
A stitch dropped, or added
Shadowed or shining
And all being woven
With the thread you are spinning,
Spinning,


Spun

I don't write erotica
not because
I am Chinese
or
on account of
my being prudish
oldish
pedantic
sanctimonious
fearful of public condemnation
nothing as such

it's just that the subject-matter
doesn't fit my poetical scheme of things
and I must give way
to others who have such forte
the poetic stage is theirs
and I wish but to be among the audience
to witness their play
and listen to what they have to say

I look at the universal
(this covers more themes than I could ever imagine)
not the microscopic individual
(should *** be brandished as a product
for public consumption?
why do  bed-rooms have doors?
entry VORBOTEN -
private property--no intruders
no voyeurs,  no spectators-
as simple as that)

what is art
and what is vulgarity and obscenity?
who is the definitive authority?

after all
writing is democracy
every writer is free
to choose their subject-matter
no author should have the audacity
to condemn another
it's effrontery
otherwise--
as all right-thinking people would readily
agree

yet
****** poetry
is quite easy
to write
the images , the metaphors
the nuances,  the allusions
the rhythm, the plot,
the vocabulary
are within the reach
of most poets
(only if their interest lies
in this field)

****** poetry
revolves around physicality
the anatomy
of the human body
two bodies-
or one body plus another-
in secluded conversation
of skin-touches-skin motion
positional modality
the heavy sighs
the heart racing
the fluidity of the lovers
as they seek to drown
in the sea of ecstasy
where the dying is
stronger than death itself
the unity
that sets the lovers free
(haven't I over-spoken?)

I don't write ****** poetry
because that's not my poetic territory
and it could spell the death
of my creativity!

The exquisite blend
Of paint
Melting off the palate

The moon is only a fantasy to me.
In life it seems so cold,
So distant,
Like numb fingers chipped ice
And flung it into the void
And it froze there,
Among lonely stars eternally far away,
Almost lost to the dark.

In the middle of the night I pretend
With my make believe glitters
And shoes filled with spiders,
That I could be Cinderella
On that night before the ball.

Only with invisible step sisters
And God mother who never came.
-I didn't particularly care
About the prince!

Rain brings life
And sun brings warmth,
Wind blows away all fears

The stars will guide
And shadows hide,
Night cloaks you from all fears.