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Journey
Here are words written down--
footprints on the sand,
cloud formations
Tomorrow
I'll be gone.
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Armfuls of Poetry, Drops of Sunshine
Sunshine rides on space and poetry on sunshine.
Poetry gives birth to sunshine, and sunshine to poetry.
Sun treasured in the heart of the bitter melon,
poetry made of steam rising from a bowl of soup in Winter.
The wind is lurking outside, swirling.
Poetry is back to haunt the old hills and prairies.
Yet the poor thatched hut remains on the river shore, waiting.
Spring carries poetry in its drizzle.
The fire sparkles poetry in its orange flame.
Sunshine stored in the heart of the fragrant wood,
warm smoke leading poetry back to the pages
of an unofficial history book.
Sunshine, though absent from space,
fills the now rose-colored stove.
Sunshine reaching out takes the color of smoke;
poetry in its stillness, the color of the misty air.
Spring rain holds poetry in its drops
which bend down to kiss the soil,
so that the seed may sprout.
Following the rain, poetry comes to dwell on each leaf.
Sunshine has a green color, and poetry a pink one.
Bees deliver warmth to the flowers from the sunshine
they carry on their wings.
On sunshine footsteps to the deep forest,
poetry drinks the nectar with joy.
With the excitement of celebration,
butterflies and bees crowd the Earth.
Sunshine makes up the dance, and poetry the song.
Drops of sweat fall on the hard ground.
Poems fly along the furrows.
The hoe handily on my shoulder, poetry flows from the breath.
Sunshine wanes away down the river,
and the silhouette of the late afternoon lingers reluctantly.
Poetry is leaving for the horizon
where the King of Light is blanketing himself in clouds.
A green sun found in a basketful of fresh vegetables,
a tasty and well-cooked sun smells delicious in a bowl of rice.
Poetry looks with a child's eyes.
Poetry feels with a weather-beaten face.
Poetry stays within each attentive look.
Poetry-- the hands that work the poor and arid land somewhere far away.
The smiling sun brightening up the sunflower;
the ripe and full sun hiding itself in an August peach;
poetry follows each meditative step,
poetry lines up the pages.
Discreetly,
within closed food packages,
poetry nurtures love.
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I Will Say I Want It All
If you ask me how much do I want,
I'll tell you that I want it all.
This morning, you and I
and all men
are flowing into the marvelous stream
of oneness.
Small pieces of imagination as we are,
we have come a long way to find ourselves
and for ourselves, in the dark, the illusion of emancipation.
This morning, my brother is back from his long adventure.
He kneels before the altar,
his eyes full of tears.
His soul is longing for a shore to set anchor at
(a yearning I once had).
Let him kneel there and weep.
Let him cry his heart out
Let him have his refuge there for a thousand years,
enough to dry all his tears.
One night, I will come
and set fire to his shelter, the small cottage on the hill.
My fire will destroy everything
and remove his only life raft after a shipwreck.
In the utmost anguish of his soul,
the shell will break.
The light of the burning hut will witness
his glorious deliverance.
I will wait for him
beside the burning cottage.
Tears will run down my cheeks.
I will be there to contemplate his new being.
And as I hold his hands in mine
and ask him how much he wants,
he will smile and say that he wants it all-- just as I did.
continue to page 10
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