Boat-rides

Boat-rides

I love the way he’d look at me

As though I was a pleasant surprise

Each and every time

His eyes would turn my way.

Our eyes would meet, he’d look away

Then find my gaze again.

What sublime secret

Language is this, spoken only

Between two people’s eyes and souls.

I’ve fallen for the way

He’d gently touch these

Silent undersea creatures –

The kindness and reverence

In his hands that I imagine

Could heal any hurt.

There he sits at the prow at ease,

Riding the waves of his home waters,

And speaking island song. 

I see him thus and feel unburdened.

I long for the sea salt-taste of his lips

On mine and his voice in my ear.

He has lived a short while yet, and yet

His wisdom is deep as the sea

That claims him.  I try to

Picture him in my mind and keep him

There away from the world.

But the world never stops pulling me

Back from this ocean I yearn to drown in.

I do not want to forget, but oh,

How quickly we forget

The things that never were.

Let me dive down deep

Into the memory of touch, sound, sight –

The only ocean in which

We two can meet.  

Winter in Japan

Winter in Japan

When I was

young, a sleeping god thought

long-dead came awake

in anger, fire, and

ash falling softly

from the sky.  I thought,

Snow.

Here I am old in a land where

a sleeping god lies

yet to wake and

snow falling gently

upon my face.  I think,

Ash.

(August 2012)

Note:  When I was a child, Mt. Pinatubo, a volcano long thought to be extinct, erupted in overwhelming violence.  The effects of having released massive amounts of volcanic ash into the atmosphere were seen all over the world.  When I was in my late twenties, I went to Japan and saw another sleeping volcano, covered in pristine white snow... 

A Force of Nature: Office Crush

A Force of Nature: Office Crush

Sidelong glances,

Surreptitious looks,

Shy Good morning-s

Thank you-s and Excuse me-s. 

My favourite is the ungrudging view of

The landscape that spans the back of your

Neck , across your shoulders, back, and down

To the base of your spine;

Especially so when you raise

Your arms to stretch and

The earth beneath my feet shifts,

Strains, and flows in time with the planes

And valleys of your body.

I hope you’ll never notice me;

But when will you ever notice me

Planning my next move to elicit the thunder of

Your laughter, the lightning of your smile?

You are a force of nature as you

Pass by me at my desk,

Uncaring as any storm passing through.

(September 2012)

Stars and Dandelions - Kaneko Misuzu

A friend of mine, a Japanese lady, gave me this poem today.  
It is so simple and elegant, and yet so profound. 
My friend told me that it's about the things we take for granted - we may not see them, but still they're there.  This is such a beautiful poem.  I thought I'd share it with the rest of the world. 


Stars and Dandelions
(Kaneko Misuzu)


Deep down in the blue sky

Like pebbles on the ocean floor
They lie submerged till dark comes
Stars unseen in the light of day.
     You can't see them, still they're there.
     Even things not seen are there.


Petals drop and withered dandelions
Hidden in cracks between roof tiles
Wait silently for spring to come
Their strong roots unseen.
     You can't see them, still they're there.
     Even things not seen are there.


星とたんぽぽ



青いお空の底ふかく、
海の小石のそのように、
夜が来るまで沈んでる、
昼のお星は眼にみえぬ。
     見えぬけれどもあるんだよ、
     見えぬものでもあるんだよ。


散ってすがれたたんぽぽの、
瓦のすきに、だアまって、
春のくるまでかくれてる、
つよいその根は眼にみえぬ、
     見えぬけれどもあるんだよ、
     見えぬけれどもあるんだよ。

Unscene #6

 

Unscene #6:  A dreamful young person asked me, "What's a kiss like?"  I laughed.

“The Kiss” (a sudden poem) 

I could tell you

love me because

I could taste

the Juicy Fruit

on your tongue. 

Though I could

slightly tell you

enjoyed tinapang bangus

for lunch. 

I don’t mind

if you don’t mind

the bitter

coffee on my lips.

Notes:  Juicy Fruit is a chewing gum; very sweet. 
Tinapang Bangus is fish preserved by salting; very salty and fishy.

Myoma

Forgive me, Mother, for giving
birth to nothing
but these cold bloody stones.
May I still be a woman?
May this torn womb still bear
the child of your blood? I am
only a bag of skin and bones
and stones that never will pull
one breath of life. May I
still be, Mother?

Just looking

I caught him looking

at me.  He looked away
once our eyes met.  That’s what
we do when we’re caught looking
at someone.  I look away, too. 
And we look at something else –
anything else.  It ends
there, right?  We just look away. 
We just pretend we caught
nothing, and were never caught. 
Does he dare look again?   What if
I catch him again?  I quickly
brush my hand over my face. 
Do I have something embarrassing
hanging from my eyes, my nose?  Run
my tongue over my teeth, check
for stray spinach.  I look again,
but no.  He’s looking away
now; walking away, too. 
I will never know his name.

Summer again

If I retraced the steps I took walking away

from you, would it matter?

If I took back the words I traded

with you, would it change anything?

I don’t want to live with regrets, these bitter

chunks of aftertaste in my mouth where

once I held your flavour. 

Now nothing seems sweet, and all

warmth is gone.  Nothing helps,

not even summer fruit, nor summer sun.

I run down tree-lined lanes

and smell blooming flowers but there is nothing.

Nothing now you’re gone.  You’re gone.

My old friend!

How good to see you again.

Your smile from across the table
is the best garnish for this
pumpkin and carrot soup gone
cold over time.  That joke
we laughed over long ago now
seems new again and funny,
so funny.  Have we grown that old
already?  All our shallow small
talk, tales, and tunes; what
have we really learned
from these nothings we swapped
to kill time and fill space?
How are you now?  Tell me
about this newfound love you keep
smiling over.  That café there
seems ideal for mulling over
love and other losses.  I wish
I’d counted the number
of cups of coffee between us all
this time.  They must be countless
as beats of heart and breaths of air.
I remember how there were less lines
on our faces.  Time changed us, or
we changed time.  In any case,
mine is running out.  This is good, though.
I’m so glad to see you again.

The Touch

I seem to have lost my touch,
and it is really making me sad.
I used to write, you see.  I used to
be able to write. But now I can't
even hold a pen
right.  My penmanship is
getting worse everyday.  The words are
not coming.  No, they are, but they are
not the ones I want. Not the right ones.

I used to love the touch.
I would hone it and sharpen it on the roughest
of words, the most grating ideas.  And smooth
it down till it was fine like
silk and warm water on skin. And words
that flow, I bathed in them. But now I can't
even type a phrase
right.  The embossed letters on
the click-clacking keys bother
my fingertips - braille for the wordless
poet.  They disturb, they tickle
the nerves.  And  still the words,
the right words do not come.

I would love to have the touch
back.  Again and again in a back
and forth motion my pen
scrawls across cheap yellowing sheets,
nudge dormant verses come
awake from lethargic forgetfulness.
My old typewriter's keys singing
an old song.  That song that my fingers
used to play on the black and white.
I used to write.  But now I can't
even remember the feeling of touching
words.  They do not come. 

Sleeping Beauty

I would rather not see

the world without him

who shall love me.

This bed shall be haven

and Hell will not have me

until he finds me here,

under the dust I shall be.

What is a hundred years;

what is a moment? No, time

does not matter. It does not

hold me, does not

curse me. Still I shall wait

in dreams. In dreams I'll live,

as I'm dead awake. Unkissed,

untouched, until he.

This is not a poem though

just the other day I was
told I could be
a poet. So
I tried to write
fancy dancing
worded nonsense. Of course
I wish it were
true and my words
could be true beauty but
I fail, and wait.
Write. Right. Fail again.
My apologies. I am no
poet. A poet is
only as good as a poem.
This couldn't be
a poem, could it?

I am missing

I am missing
you who claim me-
a ward,
a follower. Lost,
I find myself
amidst these other
nameless faces.
I am missing
you whom I cannot keep
up with, live up
to, claim as sun
to flower, as moon
to tide. I lose
myself and wonder, wander
whichever way to walk,
to face, to turn. Away
from here, anywhere
else is near.
I am missing
you who pull me
and push me. Away
from here, anyone
else is near. By
and by, these faces
will pass by-
blank as my own,
lost as I am.
Let me pass by.
Let me pass.
Bye.

Passing fancy

Passing fancy, I
catch the corner of your eye.
I’m yours and you’re mine
only for a little while.
Passing fancy, I
measure your breath with mine,
and your heart beating to my time.
I’m yours and you’re mine
only for a little while.
Passing fancy, I
bring you my flickering light,
but must take it back away by night.
Sip of this my spark and shine.
I’m yours and you’re mine
but only for a little while.

I am not angry

I am not angry

or upset

over what I cannot

control. I won’t

seek to blame

the world or anyone

else. I am

only what I am,

not stupid…

sometimes. I am not

angry or afraid

that I did

wrongly; I won’t worry

over small things

that might have been

more – had I let them be.

I am simple; I accept

what is mine. I know

when to let go

of what is not.

Life is simple

enough. I’ve had

what was mine – not

enough, but mine never

the less. I am…

Dizzy

Flutter from the pit

of my stomach,

I reel and the world

reeled with me.

Sway slow, slow

dance on my feet,

on my toes.

I float down the

depth of no

deeper than sleep.

And dream

and wake and

dream awake, I am

nothing but a-

flutter. In the pit

of my stomach

there is a feeling,

fading fast but

not fleeting. My love

all a-feeling,

had me reeling,

dizzy on my feet.

Yawn

Falling into sleep,

your kiss is the breath

flowing down my throat,

into my chest and back

out again. I exhale

with my mouth

open wide, my eyes

misting with cold

tears. You leave me

sleep-heavy thoughts

clouded by a thick fog

of the breath

I long to inhale again.

Blind man song

Blind man by the road

Clutches old-cold guitar,

Playing back the warmth

Of days long gone.

“Spare a coin for a starving man,”

Says he, with a strum (B-flat).

“And I’ll sing a li’l song f’ye.”


Young once, and fickle,

Those days long gone.

Stiffened rheumatic joints,

These hands come

And go. Love, how swiftly did it go.

“Spare a coin for a starving man,”

Says he, with a strum (B-flat).

“And I’ll play a li’l tune f’ye.”


For the love he’d lost,

The blindness he blames.

For playing the old-cold guitar

And his silly little games.

Gone are those days.

“Spare a coin for a starving man,”

Says he, with a strum (B-flat).

“And I’ll tell y’alittle story.”


The blind eyes tear

And withered fingers bend,

Reaching, grasping for those days

Gone and dead.

“Spare no coin for a dying man,

These hands can’t play no mo’.

Lost all save this song,

And one last breath,

And one last strum (B-flat),

With that this song ends.”

Time, Space, Blankness

Is it not unfair,

how you give me

this burden of words

and colors?

I never did ask

for any time. None of it was mine

in the first place; like you.


Is it not unfair,

that before this space came to be,

the empty moments were enough

for me to count?

I let them pass

without looking them in the eye.

They weren’t mine to fill

in the first place; like you.


It is so unfair

that I was given a puzzle to solve,

when it was never mine

to hang whole upon

my empty walls

in the first place; like you.


Now I have these steady moments

and this undecorated space

with no words nor colors.

And for the first time I look it

in its eye and notice

its blankness.

the next two minutes

I breathe
the passing moments
in another woman’s dress.
In the next two minutes,
I am beautiful
and beloved.
Her music is mine,
and the tears I cry
will be hers, too.
When she says
she loves you,
those are my words.
Let her say them for me.
I am voiceless
and unseen.
I hide, retreat into
her darkness;
and she is bright, brighter,
brightest. I shine,
sparkle; made free.
And in the next two minutes,
I am she.