"lin" poems
*Such a lovely ring, she said.
It even looks good on my ugly hands.
As if those hands were lacking.
As if those hands –
hard working hands –
Bore no beauty of their own.
My mother’s hands,
That held the soap
To scrub my baby toes;
Whose hands were there
To show me how
To blot my runny nose.
Those hands that later
held my hands
And patiently did teach me
How to tie my shoes -
Then held them once again
To coax and guide my own
To write my cursive name
Until the time when I alone
Could do the very same.
My mother’s hands,
That fed me,
And tucked me in at night;
Who touched my fevered brow
And soothed away my fright.
My mother’s hands,
That all my life
Gave comfort, care and hope.
And when my children came to be,
I watched my mother’s hands -
a new grandmother’s hands -
Touch my children, tenderly.
My mother’s hands,
Yes, weathered by their toil,
The fingers wide,
And aged with years –
and just like her,
Still sure and strong
Yet gentle as they ever were.
My mother’s hands –
She looks, and says they’re ugly
But I don’t know what to say.
For when I see
My mother’s hands
It’s the beauty of
The love they gave,
Assuring strength
And constant grace
All held within
My mother’s hands.
Lin Cava©*
Nov 14, 2010
Nov 14, 2010 at 5:51 AM UTC
Bodhidharma, the first Zen patriarch,
told Emperor Wu that merit
meant nothing;
but great emptiness
revealed by sitting facing a wall
had great merit.
Wu was perplexed.
Patriarch number two, Hui-k’o,
faced a granite wall in a forest for seven years;
it became his beloved.
Seng-Tsan, the third Zen patriarch wrote poems
and his legendary Hsinhsinming verse
transcended all the unnecessary duality
in the mind’s mire.
Tao-Hsin, patriarch number four,
said don’t’ stare at a wall,
just do the laundry
and watch the clear water
turn brown
then pour it onto the vegetables in the garden
when you’re done.
Patriarch five, Hung-Jen
meditated from age six staring at the horizon
and said if you find the line between sky and land and sea
you slip into infinity
with no sky, land and sea
just one place for the mind to finally rest.
Hui-Neng came next;
no wall
no laundry water
no heavenly horizon
just fascinating monkey mind
sometimes full, sometimes empty
running whichever way, whenever,
and that was all good.
The 300-year Tang dynasty
had three wild man patriarchs-
Ma-Tzu shouted constantly;
Pai-Ching did laundry,
and Huang-Po told everyone
they were already enlightened
and should not bother with Zen at all.
Lin-Chi was the Jesus of Zen
who loved everybody everyday.
He taught the heart’s clear natural action,
compassion, not walls and laundry and trying not to think.
His love was wiser than his mind.
The patriarchs of zen
taught more than a thousand years
before I grew up an American idiot
in a materialistic world
populated by narcissistic borderline freaks
thumbing smartphones in leather car seats
never doing laundry
afraid to face the walls
built of brick made
mortared tight together
with the fear
of their own compassionlessness.
Jun 26, 2012
Jun 26, 2012 at 1:46 AM UTC
Little Teddy bear
pink and cuddly
lying on the kerb
with the lights
of the cafes
bouncing off you
Oh who’s missing you tonight
crying for her teddy bear?
maybe it’s little Amy asleep
who dropped you
while her mum carried her
into the car?
and maybe now little Amy
cries in her room:
'Where’s my teddy bear?'
And Mom says: 'Oh, sweetheart;
sleep, maybe it’s in the car…
we’ll get it in the morning.'
Little Teddy bear
pink and cuddly
lying on the kerb
with the lights
of the cafes
bouncing off you
Oh who’s missing you tonight
crying for her teddy bear?
maybe it’s little Lin
who came visiting from Shanghai
and exchanged her panda bear
for an Aussie cuddly toy
and she’s in the airport now
and cries: 'I lost my Aussie teddy bear'
and they can’t find one at the airport
and Dad says:
'Don’t worry;
we’ll get you a new one
when we get home…'
Little Teddy bear
pink and cuddly
lying on the kerb
with the lights
of the cafes
bouncing off you
Sep 27, 2010
Sep 27, 2010 at 9:59 AM UTC
Before they fought, they had simple lives.
Remember them, their loves and their wives.
Others they served and many came home.
They parted from service but went on alone.
Heroes; the wounded, the brave or the scared
Each one fighting hard, standing tough, as he dared.
Returned to their homes, they remember alarms;
Soldiers they served with, their Brothers In Arms.
Into their minds, memories battle their war.
Now home in safety, miss them once more.
All go into battle, braced for the fight
Remember their Brothers In Arms in the night.
Memorial Day calls them, witness to bear -
Such Brothers In Arms, they will always be there.
Lin Cava©
Oct 18, 2010
Oct 18, 2010 at 5:04 AM UTC
To the melody of "Ru Meng Lin"
Last night in the light rain as rough winds blew,
My drunken sleep left me no merrier.
I question one that raised the curtain, who
Replies: "The wild quince trees -- are as they were."
But no, but no!
Their rose is waning, and their green leaves grow.
2.6k
—Flash Forward—
A day of reckoning.
A small boat crosses
the Hudson River,
no warning horn.
Destination New Jersey,
of all places.
A. Burr isn’t warned
that Hamilton will not
fire his pistol.
Destiny predetermined.
“Death doesn’t discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints,
It takes and it takes and it takes.
History obliterates.”
—Flashback—
General.
Colonel.
Aide-de-camp.
Immigrant.
“Don’t engage, strike by night.
Remain relentless ‘til their troops take flight.”
“We escort their men out of Yorktown.
They stagger home single file.
Tens of thousands of people flood the streets.”
“Took up a collection just to send him to the
mainland.
‘Get your education. Don’t forget from whence
you came.’”
—Stepfather of the Union—
Treasury secretary, author of the Federalist Papers,
lawyer, speechwriter, confidante, opponent of slavery,
member of the Constitutional Convention.
“History has its eyes on you.”
“I’ve seen injustice in the world and I’ve
corrected it.”
“The Federalist: Addressed to the People
of the State of New York.”
“Goes and proposes his own form
of government.”
—Family and Marriage—
The Schuyler Sisters – Eliza.
Maria and James Reynolds – adultery and bribery.
Philip Hamilton – successor son and victim.
Philip Schuyler – father-in-law.
“And if this child
Shares a fraction of your smile
Or a fragment of your mind, look out, world!”
“I know you’re a man of honor,
I’m so sorry to bother you at home.”
“I’m only nineteen but my mind is older,
Gonna be my own man, like my father
but bolder.”
“Grampa just lost his seat in the Senate.”
—Why, How, How long?—
Why not?, biography,
genius, rapid-fire rap,
hip-hop, historical vertigo,
Lin-Manuel Miranda at the White House,
a cast talented beyond measure,
the Great White Way,
2017-18 and forever….
“…13 percent of the population is foreign
born, which is near an all-time high;
that one day soon there will no longer
be majority and minority races, only a
vibrant mix of colors.”
‒Jeremy McCarter, from Chapter I of
Hamilton: The Revolution
*© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016
With credit to the book:*
Hamilton: The Revolution
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
The city falls away, gray, as I rise,
my ladies cozy in the glass lift – to seven.
Ten to four. Spot on. No need to worry.
You’d think it were High Tea – be late; no break.
Between five and six, the blasted thing stops!
Me, stuck in a fog, with the Barrister’s waiting.
Before they moved in, taking up all of seven,
I stayed in the mezz., tipping my ladies to the cups.
The lift jolts, jostling the ladies, rattling their tops.
I move out; cups, cakes and savories in rows, like ducks.
“English Breakfast, Darjeeling, Earle Gray”, I say,
wishing the solicitors away, in court today.
A pinched-face woman, aghast at her clocks, rushes in.
I made inquiries today; for the lease of a storefront next door.
Lin Cava ©
Oct 12, 2010
Oct 12, 2010 at 3:55 PM UTC
Autumn’s snap is in the air
Like the crisp crunch of a ripe apple.
I want to gather them up from
The trees, take them home in bushels
Make apple compote,
Apple strudel,
Apple pie!
I want to stuff them into roast duck
With black walnuts and chestnuts.
I want to poach them with some pears
And sour cherries.
I want to make apple tarts with cranberries.
And feed them all to you.
Flour dust still in my hair,
Powdered sugar on my face
To make love to your appetite
With bits of apple goodies
In the crisp Autumn air - somewhere
On beds of leaves bursting bright
All in the colors of Autumn.
You’ll never think of apples
(or tarts) the same way again.
And Autumn, a little more exotic
A little bit ****** something
To look forward to
When Autumn’s snap is in the air!
© Lin Cava
Oct 21, 2010
Oct 21, 2010 at 7:21 PM UTC
*Quiet night, the darkness illuminated by a silver moon
Punctuates my solitude, exposing thoughts restrained by day.
Tip a toast to all I have loved and lost, much too soon
Closing in upon the time, I too, will slip away.
Silver moon, carry me on a winsome dream,
That a night zephyr might take my heart
take this love I hold inside, delivered as a moonbeam
through distances beyond the plotted chart.
Bring my Love safe passage, held within your song
that he may feel my presence, hearken to my call -
an embrace to touch him, hold him fast and long –
to have his heart think of me, in all he can recall.
Silver moon, these gifts must travel true
they must bear up to last throughout the years
to fulfill a need and share as time comes due
memories to comfort a once lost love’s soft tears.
© Lin Cava*
Oct 19, 2010
Oct 19, 2010 at 4:33 PM UTC
You are intricate.
Tracing neurotransmissions down your spinal column,
from freckle to L4,
turning slow motor momentum.
It's my weighted moment,
my wordplay peachfuzz.
Silence, silencio, silent night,
simple sectors seething softly,
like a whistling tea kettle with
mutational falsetto (puberphonia).
Words are flowing,
just tripping their way around my e lin- sheath.
If I had to guess,
I would assume that neurochemical firings occur to the beat of softspoken dubstep.
Oct 20, 2011
Oct 20, 2011 at 10:58 PM UTC
*Dewdrops on silk web
Shiny black spider spinning
A blackbird watches.
Lin Cava*
Oct 23, 2010
Oct 23, 2010 at 3:36 PM UTC
Sand-crusted catacombs of dismembered dreams
Settle beside memories of the child who grew up
In rocky Harpswell, Maine. Not many beaches,
Only a foggy stretch beyond Morse Mountain --
But I used to stand ankle-deep
In the water, wait until my toes sank
Into crystalized Earth
And bubbles from Littleneck clams.
I’d stand there until goosebumps spread upon
My blanched legs, rising up, up, like the artificial hills
Of Maya Lin’s Storm King Wavefield.
Now, when I lie alone,
Misplaced inside a vacant Manhattan studio,
I surrender to sirens and accelerated lives.
Peace comes in painting – thick oil,
Violet and claret on stretched canvas,
Depictions of neon signs and cityscapes,
Cheap t-shirt stands on street corners,
And 24-hour coffee shops with “specialty”
Blends in little white travel mugs – selling
To flocks of strangers, strutting like pigeons on cement
Sidewalks, pretending they belong.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
*The Kestrel and the Dove
Friday night
Saturday afternoon
Sunday in the morning
you are quiet
a ghostly wisp;
a gossamer veil:
a scent on the breeze
I recall the doves
cuddled together in their tree
coo-cooing gentle love songs
even as they sleep
and I wonder
Are you coo-cooing once more?
…and is she of the same feather?
…does she sing to you a different song
in the same coo-cooing voice she crooned
before
in your not so long ago past?
Your need is strong
to be turtle-doving,
softly loving
and though your tune
is soft and haunting
in those refrains from long ago
you are different,
forever changed.
You are a kestrel,
set free, at last.
The Kestrel and the Dove
though together for this brief hour
can never again
be bound by love.
Lin Cava
31-August-2013*
Aug 31, 2013
Aug 31, 2013 at 1:13 PM UTC
I’m not afraid to admit
very few things
she thinks,
head nestling on the window,
over the sleeping Atlantic, eyes,
like drowsy oceans, swelling
over combers of clouds:
she watches herself
drift away
*do I arrive
or depart
(a return or restart)
to the city of light
that has warmed,
since girl dreams were born,
the tomorrows
of my lamp lit heart?*
yet what could I do,
but dawdle and pine,
write this and offer art:
and hope it speaks mine,
am I not a wonder?
keen, sonorous in stride,
industrious, strength,
brimming with pride; bonafide,
–zut alors
you and me,
divided. I abhor
the wind that blew (your delicate cloud)
from my Rhine.
is your love sewn in guilt,
cold repentance and blame,
is your sweet foolish heart,
here chained to mistakes?
what if you are a photograph,
captured among many,
held by each but for one fleeting frame,
(will you forget my antiquated name?)
which of your colours:
Manet unsentimental,
or Impressions in variation,
french vanilla in tumble,
or, contours, postcards, and maps,
shall fleshen our past–
these stilted
and dwindled days.
I think, for me,
forever in evening,
in fear of
the fast falling night,
or moving slow, pale
window glow,
afternoons, sunlit
in the space,
between grace, clocks,
and tunes: I fumble like a stone
to breathe l’espirit of you.
I know and you know. I suppose,
unfurl in a brave new start,
above bonds of looming crows,
blankets of Western valley snows,
the beating red of my radio spire;
think of a lingering dusk,
when you see that Eiffel tower
on the lush fields of March,
but imagine us as that point,
over fresh Champs du March,
a glimmer at the peak,
on the flat earth,
apart.
Dec 17, 2012
Dec 17, 2012 at 5:08 PM UTC
I hear her call me now; Calliope.
She dances in rooms made all of windows,
In delicate tones her calls reach sweetly
Stands naked amongst cast off silken bows.
So lightly she leaps among the sunbeams
Her gift bestowed, poetic cache replete
A tiny figure, seen only in dreams
On her face, her happiness shines complete.
I hear her laughter, tinkling playful sounds -
In her mischief, she will often refuse
To part with her gift, of which, she abounds
I’m glad you found me again, little muse.
© Lin Cava
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 7:53 PM UTC
why You Callin Me
I Ain't Got Time
Why You Callin Me (Uhh) [x2]
Now He Trynna Do Me
But I Ain't Yo Girl
How You Actin Like You Knew Me [x2]
Iunno You Boy [x4]
(But I love you tho)
Well I Don't Love No One Yeah I'm a ***** For It
Cooler Than The Coolest Kid I Don't Feel **** For It (Ha!)
Cause A ***** Tourin
Like Jeremy Lin You Know A ***** Scoring
Eating Rap ******* And It's Been Borin
Shout Outs To The Groupies Cause They Been Whorin (Well)
They Just Have Fun G Tyga Got A ***** In The Crib With A One Piece
***** We King And How You Feel Now
****** On The Coke Cause Honey Got A Deal Now
For Real Now The Queen's ****** Busy
You Can Come To The Party But You Ain't Going With Me
Why You Callin Me
I Ain't Got Time
Why You Callin Me (Uhh) [x2]
Now He Trynna Do Me
But I Ain't Yo Girl
How You Actin Like You Knew Me [x2]
Iunno You Boy [x4]
(But I love you tho)
Well I Don't Love Em But I Don't Hate Em
**** Actin Like A Care Cause I Don't Rate Em
All These Guys Suicidal Cause The Coke Made Em
Lil Honey Ain't A ***** She Let The Coke Break Em (Uhh)
Fake ****** I Ain't Bout Bout Em
But They Fun What The **** I Do Without Em Out Em (Uhh)
So **** It Let's Smoke Boo But I Ain't Gon Love You 'Member I Told You
Now I'm Chillin At Home & He Callin Me
Tell Him Wrong Number Like Excuse Me Pardon Me
**** Was All Cool When I Meet Him
But The Next Time I Act Like I Forget Em (I'm An *******
Why You Callin Me
I Ain't Got Time
Why You Callin Me (Uhh) [x2]
Now He Trynna Do Me
But I Ain't Yo Girl
How You Actin Like You Knew Me [x2]
Iunno You Boy [x4]
(But I love you tho)
[Talking:]
Hahaha
****** Wit You
Ima Have To Change My Number
Hahaha
I'm Not Jokin Tho
Nov 22, 2013
Nov 22, 2013 at 1:00 PM UTC
**Bumblebee buzzing
From flower to my shoulder
Don’t pollinate me**
Sep 14, 2011
Sep 14, 2011 at 7:05 PM UTC
I love kittens
there's nothing like
stroking...
a
little
*****
Mar 12, 2013
Mar 12, 2013 at 11:46 PM UTC
I have built this wall,
brick by brick.
I’ve mortared it all,
sturdy and thick.
I remember the time
I was washed in forgiveness
my face wet with tears -
my sense of self released
as I lost that heavy load.
I turn, and start another
line of bricks,
heavy with the mortar
until it sticks.
Each year the wall gets thicker
and the light is sometimes thin.
Each week the wall gets higher
so that nothing will get in.
Still, I can remember when
I was stripped of all my woes,
the weight of sin washed clean,
burdens lifted from me
to feel that touch within.
I turn, and start another
line of bricks.
Heavy with the mortar
Until it sticks.
It has been many years
since I began this wall.
I've spilled too many tears
as the bricks built up so tall.
And though the memories
allow the light’s way in,
I know - deep inside of me,
I’ll not break down again.
I have built this wall,
brick by brick.
I’ve mortared it all,
sturdy and thick.
I know that when it’s done,
I've placed the last brick of this room,
that when, at last, I’m through,
it will become my tomb.
Lin Cava©
Oct 30, 2010
Oct 30, 2010 at 8:06 PM UTC
Where are we, Kaya?
Landscapes pock like amanita muscaria, fly agaria
the long-legged mushrooms, scarlet
and foot-cloven
and languages rage and quicken like seeds
Seated at the empty table
bloated from unrequited intentions
we refrain from embrasures
Your Garingau voice & throaty laugh
ripple over our eyes
Ha liya youn dabib?
You ask: Where
are we
going?
from here, with Lighthouse Caye in sight
on this sea of blighted corals beyond Seine Bight
where you were born as a footling--
inked though it became-- sole dark, Soul bright
emerging from the long dive
talismans training in your toothless mouth
foretelling the deeper plunges
off Billy Hawk Caye at Solstice
soulfully spearing our Sole--food without strife
And there is richer fare
where
we
are
going
into the night Kaya.
~ Lin Ostler
December 23. 2011
all rights reserved
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 3:14 PM UTC
Beating of drums and the midnight fires;
heroes and children shed blood in the sand
waging war for political liars.
Do what the situation requires.
through strikes of panic in a foreign land -
beating of drums and the midnight fires.
Desert beauty, a thing that inspires,
won’t save child martyrs, dead by their own hand,
waging war for political liars.
Sacrifice all, for Allah admires
a strong willed martyr to play as they can;
beating of drums and the midnight fires.
Light up the night for wasted desires.
Mother will love you as part of the plan;
waging war for political liars.
Heroes or children, each of them tires -
forfeit of future; all he acquires;
beating of drums and the midnight fires;
waging war for political liars.
Lin Cava©
A Villanelle has some very specific rules for the form. The repetition sets up a cadence; a particular rhythm. This is one of my first of the form.
Oct 25, 2010
Oct 25, 2010 at 4:00 PM UTC
VII.
Ô myrrhe ! ô cinname !
Nard cher aux époux !
Baume ! éther ! dictame !
De l'eau, de la flamme,
Parfums les plus doux !
Prés que l'onde arrose !
Vapeurs de l'autel !
Lèvres de la rose
Où l'abeille pose
Sa bouche de miel !
Jasmin ! asphodèle !
Encensoirs flottants !
Branche verte et frêle
Où fait l'hirondelle
Son nid au printemps !
Lis que fait éclore
Le frais arrosoir !
Ambre que Dieu dore !
Souffle de l'aurore,
Haleine du soir !
Parfum de la sève
Dans les bois mouvants !
Odeur de la grève
Qui la nuit s'élève
Sur l'aile des vents !
Fleurs dont la chapelle
Se fait un trésor !
Flamme solennelle,
Fumée éternelle
Des sept lampes d'or !
Tiges qu'a brisées
Le tranchant du fer !
Urnes embrasées !
Esprits des rosées
Qui flottez dans l'air !
Fêtes réjouies
D'encens et de bruits !
Senteurs inouïes !
Fleurs épanouies
Au souffle des nuits !
Odeurs immortelles
Que les Ariel,
Archanges fidèles,
Prennent sur leurs ailes
En venant du ciel !
Ô couche première
Du premier époux !
De la terre entière,
Des champs de lumière
Parfums les plus doux !
Dans l'auguste sphère,
Parfums, qu'êtes-vous,
Près de la prière
Qui dans la poussière
S'épanche à genoux !
Près du cri d'une âme
Qui fond en sanglots,
Implore et réclame,
Et s'exhale en flamme,
Et se verse à flots !
Près de l'humble offrande
D'un enfant de lin
Dont l'extase est grande
Et qui recommande son père orphelin !
Bouche qui soupire,
Mais sans murmurer !
Ineffable lyre !
Voix qui fait sourire et qui fait pleurer !
Mai 1830.
1.5k
When tenderness turns away,
Hope breathes a final sigh.
Life reverts to shades of grey –
Love, once fluid, turns brittle and dry.
Zephyrs that often piqued an interest
And brought exotic dreams to fore –
Die as doldrums, unimpressed;
To leave one haunted, wanting more.
If Passion is Love's celebration,
The verve and spirit of its vigor -
Then Tenderness is its reflection –
In absentia; brings callousness and rancor.
In the quiet times, when passion sleeps -
Touch me softly in tenderness-
Delicate wonders that Love's company keeps
To remind me again with sweet gentleness.
Alas, when tenderness turns away,
Lost to deaf ears, that final sigh –
Love is loathe to wait or to stay,
Hearts cease to beat and Love does die.
Lin Cava©
Oct 20, 2010
Oct 20, 2010 at 4:35 PM UTC
I've learned all teachers of life taught me
I have always walked a strictest lin
Did all those who are my equals said to
And might I say did them better more so fine
But before my soul decided another lesson
To be born to free to be the captain of my soul
Way over time I researched few things sublime
And listenened to this very own soul of mine
Who gave any the right to instruct their way
Upon my soul since it became myself long ago
Its time I let go and its time I flew to feelings new
Its time I listened to my souls experience to know
Time I undressed time I confessed its simplytime
That I took over inmy own souls fields of clover true
Well over time I ignored their oh so holy advice
Loved life more hell to heaven all things old and new
Time for a time I knew moments so fine ever sublime
Time I undressed confessed and by passed this mess
Well over time I loved more this soul of mine
And with a likwise thinker spent time and flew
(( I'VE NEVER BEEN TO ME ))
terrence michael sutton
copyright 2018
Jul 18, 2018
Jul 18, 2018 at 8:46 PM UTC
*To think we might go terraforming;
When we cannot save our own green earth.
Bulldoze, clear, hydrate, land conforming -
Leave behind the trash with carefree mirth
Lost to eyes that have never perceived
Intrinsic beauty within a leaf
The song of nature, gifts we’ve received
Perfumed zephyrs, their aroma brief
A symphony of insects and birds
Trills and whistles, loud winds and soft sighs
Music here that needs no spoken words
Had they noticed how it softly dies?
We’ve pushed beyond a safe redemption
Killed off species never discovered
So much more of which we can mention
Some, much too late to be recovered
And yet, we plan on terraforming
Move on to a new place, start out fresh
Some might see it as bullish storming
With ways unchanged, new worlds we enmesh.
Lin Cava©*
Oct 28, 2010
Oct 28, 2010 at 5:20 PM UTC