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Al Aug 18
The thread in the hand of a kind mother
Is the coat on the wanderer's back.
Before he left she stitched it close
In secret fear that he would be slow to return.
Who will say that the inch of grass in his heart
Is gratitude enough for all the sunshine of spring?
A gift from a friend, this piece comes from the Penguin Classics book 'Poems of the Late T'ang' translated and introduced by A.C Graham
Al Aug 12
She speaks in clouds,

her curves drink lost
words.

Her dress entrances.

This marketplace so full
of colour,

many fragrances merge.

I watch her dance with
gypsy jazz tones.

Olive skin and dark hair.

She beckons me forth, to
a flaming beauty.

With her clouds I
merge.
Al Aug 12
Yellow figures gather as the rains fall.  Single splashes become puddles.  A great Oak stands tall. Sandalwood incense burns. The old monk prays. Images come and go, flashes of the mind. A petite woman slices an apple, then points to a star.  Like the apple, her words are shared: "Nature's signs are everywhere"
Al Jul 24
The flames rise,
sending smoke
signals.

Tonight I erase
these ink-filled
pages.
Al Jul 17
Bottle uncorked
words floating
lost in the waves.
Al Jul 17
Walk the old road:  
ancient ways heal
your pain.
Al Jul 17
As the coin falls
my wish remains.
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