2018, 12, 21 [Friday]
Bitten
Something keeps returning
To the heart
A little old guilt, like a mosquito circling back
Again on a sleepless night – biting deep
Into your flesh each time
After you wave it away, as it makes
Every shapeless concentration of thrombosis
A summer devil, attracted by the blood
Enjoys driving away all nice & cool dreams
The heart pumps blood without stop
Often do you suffer insomnia, with
Your capillaries constantly irritated
By a seemingly innocuous vampire
You + Me
Each time you fall asleep
In the depth
Of darkness
Don’t fear, my dear
I will stay close on guard
Like the sun on the other
Side of the world, keeping
Your dream warm, &
Fully illuminated
When you rise with a morning
Glow, my light will cast a shadow
Always ready to follow you
Preventing your soul from lagging behind
Folios
My study has a small section for dreams
Another for history, & all other
Shelves for hundreds of
Printed material containing my poetry
One day, to a ghost familiar to my
Other self, I try to show off with my own work
But just could not find a single line between
The two sections newly messed up
Another Butterfly Effect
Gracefully, her left ring finger flaps
Its unseen wings against a guching string
There at the deep heart of a bamboo
Forest
& here in the English Bay
A tiny fish jumps out of the farthest
Boundary of the northern gyroscope, &
God knows how many days
Will pass before a tsunami roars
In Southeast Asia
Or a political tornado
Sweeps across Northern America
Tea Party
Each time I gather with one or two old friends
From history or literature for a couple of tea, I
Set my clock about half an hour later
Than all the time devices in the outside world
Just to make us a group somewhat out of fashion
So we can enjoy each other’s company in the past
Totally unaware of the happenings in the present moment
There we are about to sip from my proud enameled teapot
When police sirens disturb us, as if
To remind us of the crimes and accidents in the street
Cannot help wondering: are we not allowed to keep a distance
To reflect upon, or to predict the future as posthumous?
Introduction to Modern Art
I would like you to meet Modern Art
Just in the same way as you found
Your other half the other day
Whom you fell in love with
(Right at first sight), but intending
To comprehend
(Neither for a single moment, nor for
The rest of your lifetime)
The Souls
Myriad souls keep floating around us
Like so many unseen specks of dust
While we are making bed or preparing
Our lunch. They follow us closely
In swirls of entangled quanta as they try to
Dance to the melody of our innermost songs
They rise and fall but never disappear
From among us, & when we sit or stand still
In meditation, they might be blown away by
A gust of summer wind. Hanging around, they
Find no path into the blank pages of history, always
Wandering like lost travellers between hell & heaven
Re-Creating
Towards the autumn sky
I make a shape of heart
With my clumsy hands
This is the feel of life
I tell the cloud
This is to illuminate the dark
Dreamland like a search light
I tell the crow stalking behind
Like the spirit of my late
Father. This is to gather all
The positive energy in the world &
Send it to the future. I tell my
Unborn grandson. This is the cycle
Of life & the philosopher’s stone
I tell the skeletal copse. This is
The circle to fill in with cries
& laughs.
I tell my other self
Beyond cosmic wall, as if
To balance yin and yang
In the whole universe
Oblivion
The first to go is the name
Like the title of this little poem
Then the image represented
By a thousand words, as if
One by one, the waves rushing
Against the beach, where not a single
Footprint is left by a snow goose
Stopping by during migration
China
Having nothing better to do, I kill
Time by looking at a traditional
Chinese painting on my iPad
Much enlarged, it appears like
A plain sheet of rice paper
Smeared with ink. I view it
In the presence of bonsai; I
Drop several thick strokes to the floor
Of history, leaving a few fine lines
Behind the sofa, & failing
To catch a colorless corner
Between black and white
It is a landscape newly relocated
Into my heart’s backyard. Then I sit
On my legs, meditating about there
Being no light in the picture, no
Shadow of anything, no perspective
As in hell. Isn’t this the art of seeing?
To the Scientist Feeling Awkward on 25 August 2256
On this 300th anniversary
Of mine, you simply
Cannot help feeling
25 % less happy than
Normal? That’s because
My lost soul is trying to hack
The chip implanted deep
In your heart!
Of Happiness
Everyone wants to be happy, but not every one lives a happy life in reality. Some were born with a happy character, some grew to be cynical and pessimistic, while others keep wishing to live happily. Some try to attain happiness through money or other tangible categories, others do so via fame or abstractions.
While most often confuse and confound happiness with success, achievement or other socially acknowledged measurement, few know that happiness per se is nothing but a personalized feel, a climate of the heart, a sustainable sense of self-content, a subjective choice and, as such, it has nothing to do with any ‘impersonal’ construct like money, merchandise, property, reputation; rather, it sis readily attainable to anyone any place anytime, like the air we inhale, since it can be achieved only within. This being the case, it is not only helpful but also necessary to develop a positive mentality.
Indeed, only when we learn to treat even the very worst with an optimistic attitude can we hope to live in true happiness. While one may suffer from unhappiness, another can still be happy even if s/he has a poor health and lives in poverty. Happiness is a choice to make for those who have to learn with a heavy heart, but a part of nature for those born and bred with a light heart. So long as you want to be happy, you can actually live a happy life no matter who you are, what you have, where you live.
Self-Healing
Rolling my entire inner self
Into a fallen leaf, but leaving
A crack at the tip, I hope
To let in some sunlight
So I can warm up again, or
Make a whistle against the cold
Cycles
1/
Paved in time with petals
Shades, leaves & snow
The same road leads me through
One year to another
2/
The blue earth will evaporate
Like a dew when another
Civilization crystalizes from chaos
3/
I am not writing poetry
Rather, it is poetry
That is writing me, again
4/
1 is a line from past to future, while
0 is the circle surrounding life
Chiaroscuros (tenebrism)
Antlike moments surging forward
Towards a distant shiny coastline
A beam of moonlight shooting
Through a thick forest at night
A lost crow cawing alone & aloud
Against the whole snowing season
That heavenly whim illuminating
A thousand miles of hellish darkness
2018, 11, 23 [Friday]
Better to Break up, Allen
because you deserve a truly fine or 'better' girl,
because you need all the more to focus on your career development,
because you two may probably have disparate underlying values,
because even if you manage to save the relationship, she'd 'betray' you later,
because (like her dad) she seems incapable of retaining a lifelong relationship,
because she appears frivolous or not serious about you, love, sex & marriage,
because her love for you is not concentrative and enduring enough,
because such unstable pre-marriage relationship is not worth saving,
because she cares significantly less about you than the other way around,
because the more you try accommodating her, the more she is to be 'spoiled,'
because she shows less honesty and loyalty than she ought to,
because she is not intelligent enough at least in terms of academics,
because her pretty face and figure (her only true 'value'?) depreciates soon,
because her family lacking faithfulness, trust and commitment apparently affects her,
because her-uncommitabilty doesn't deserve your deep or unconditional love,
because it is a waste of time, effort and affection to go on dealing with her,
because she may turn out too 'newer-minded', childish & willful for you,
because her personality is stronger than you can comfortably cope with,
because she is not a good or 'perfect' fit to you,
because 'you can take the horse to water, but never make her drink',
because it's better to suffer short-term pain now than long-term torture later,
because …
Bucket List
1.
last year: find a short cut leading all humans to happiness;
2.
last month: invent something allowing men to piss without spilling;
3.
last week: travel to a foreign unpopulated mountainous area;
4.
last day: climb onto the highest spot in a forest;
5.
last hour: settle down under a tall and straight tree like a dying elephant;
6.
last minute: look as far as possible at the landscape like Sphinx;
7.
last second: release my inner being so that it can fly up;
8.
last mini second: join the proto consciousness of the cosmos; and
9.
the rest of time: drift around every quantum entangled with my other selves
Sonnet in Prepositions: Yes, It Is Right
Among the buds ready to stretch out
Beneath the mid-autumn moon
Circa 50 BC; down a rugged trail
Except when He needed a pen to draw
From hilltop to hilltop; in an alphabetic
List where neither g nor h can be
Found; like j and k; minus all masks &
Sloughs; near the end of twilight; on the day
When frogs had just lost their voices
Per sight; qua art; re: immigration to
Asgardia; since the breaking up of the soil
Than the matrimony of two snow geese
Under the lowest cloud; via Styx
Within the absence of x, y & z
Neutralization
High mInd + Low poInt Of Happiness
Yields
The salt of Earth (wisdom?) &
Water … under a bridge
Or
Hardships of life
Plus
Reflections upon experiences
Leads to
Poetry (?), & fragments of
Feeling
Sonnet in Split Infinitives: Just Fancy Them
To really stay far apart from each other
Within the same inner space. To almost
Completely have gone to the far end
To not spill darkness over the horizon
Of mind. To in this manner treat
Their loved ones. To heavily knock before
Struggling to enter the backdoor of God’s heart
To totally ignore the rules & conventions
To boldly go when no women
Have gone before. To nobly
Maintain a low profile
With tyrannical pride
To surely & steadily go along. To deeply
Drive 1 into 0. To ever yang with yin
Master of My Selves
You have a whole pack of selfhoods, constantly
On the run, bolting ahead, or lagging behind
While sticking their noses in gifts left behind
By other quasi dogs. Sometimes, one jumps
Ahead of you. Another sprinting far off into
Invisibility, & a third dancing around you
Like the shadow of a daruma doll. However
None of them really outpaces your living
Consciousness or your protobeing. Leashed
As each of them is, they arrive at your final
Destination almost exactly at the same time
As your mind stops functioning, you cannot
Help wondering: I am their only master, or
Just one of them to catch up with another?
Sound Effect
O! Fill in this vowel’s empty mouth
With every confluent consonant
Until the circling letter is blown
Into a loud note of exclamation!
Second Hometown: Written for Visual Verse
As a brand new settlement, this quasi-
Utopian Jamestown lies deep
In the heart land of another Asgardia, where
There’s no sun or moon shining in the sky
No god looking down from above, not even
A tree, a hill or a stream in the background
But humans can enjoy all the leisurely moments
Trickling out of their overly crowded buildings
As in a classic Chinese painting, where
There’s always plenty of light illuminating
Everything brightly, but leaving not a single
Shadow in the whole landscape, where night
Seems more impossible than darkness
As if in Tao Yuanming’s Peach Colony, where
People live in colorful harmony
With nature, never aware of
The New World, much less
The triumphant Trump or
His America First
(written between 9:35 and 9:45 am on 6 November 2018)
Towards the End of a Beginning
Now is the high time
To begin the ending
By ungrowing
Into happy childhood
Lost long ago
To rejuvenate our
Retirement
Day by day
Until our inner beings
Join His innocence
As newly old newborns
The Most Meaningful
With so many more meanings
Than any other English word
Run has finally run out of definitions
In a dictionary as in a layman-
Defined life, much like mine
Negativities
Unhappiness oozes
From your inner
Self, a different
Kind of sweat. It’s
As if your protobeing has
Just run a Marathon race
& burned out all
The unwanted fat
In your body
& now it’s outside
Of you, unhappiness
Not a dehydrated waste
But a by-product of
The consciousness. Like this
It will evaporate soon
Under the afternoon sun
Until what remains is
The other version
Of past each time
You do a vigorous
Inner exercise in the wild
Gaining Perfect Health
Keep shining brightly
In your inner universe, &
Your heart will dispel
Every shade of darkness
Warm each cold corner, &
Nurture each spiritual cell
At Qingming Festival
True, it can never grow
Like a real seed, but
My father’s bone ash is
So well planted there
In the rich soil of his
Native village, it has kept us
Hoping & hoping
For just another harvest
What’s All This About?
As the blind fortune teller caressed the face
Of a patron, she knew the shapes, & color
By the flesh flushing to her tenderest touch
The sun was rising when I reached out my hands
For the stretching shadow, & began to feel
The slippery darkness from the world’s other side
Trees in the Depth of Autumn
The season shakes the whole forest, blowing
Every twig into a note of the rustling melody
From light green through yellowish to dark
Brown, as layers of layers of leaves retreat
From the sun as if peeled off like an onion
Language Acquisition: for Katie
You are learning the rules of syntax:
With a diphthong, you call Mama
In English (or yeye in Chinese), &
In a single syllable, you pronounce
Go after your favourite (winnie) pooh
Unaware of an world overly crowded
With nouns as subjects, you know it is
A verb that helps to convey a meaning
It is a subject followed by a predicate
That makes you a statement of innocence
On New Year’s Eve, Again
At each new year’s gathering, crowds
Count aloud to ten in every dialect:
Ten, nine, eight, seven, six
Five, four, three, two, one
As if to remind themselves in a ritual
Of what will turn to be the other side
Of when. Just minutes ago, you received
An automatically sent phone message:
If you do not act at once, you will be
Arrested. A mischievous call it seems
But I could have launched an evil missile
To blast the police headquarters for failure
To safeguard the peace of a whole inner world
Tuning in with Liu Weijian: a he Poem
So profoundly delighted am I
In listening to your xiao music
As it resonates with my inner voice
That I could die here & now in comfort
After finally finding my best audience
Much like Bo Ya meeting with Ziqi
Set Tight against It
The river through the city
Is littered with snags
Dumped by the storms
On their way to the sea
Snags don’t leave with storms.
Floating up and down on the surface
They become invisible to lookers-on
Like hidden notes of history
2018, 9, 23 [Sunday]
As I Get Newly Old, My Dad Mailed
A Reminder to Me, Which Says
Soon you can no longer see anything, anybody clearly
Enough with or without your glass, even at a close range
Some pain will bug you here at a joint, or there
In an organ, and become part of your daily life
Also, your lower leg skin will sometimes get so itchy
You’d scratch them with a metal brush, or peel it off
You can afford to eat whatever you dreamed of in the country
But doctors will advise you to avoid any seafood, even meat
While you cannot focus well during the daytime, it is
Often a big battle to fall asleep in the heart of darkness
You will visit the washroom more often than you’d like to
But fail to urinate clean or excrete to your heart’s content
Seldom will you find yourself among fellow humans
Nor can you make new friends as you could before
You will walk more slowly until you lose mobility &
Carsickness will return & make you nervous again
You will go through all such & many other sufferings
Besides being chased by darkening shadows of death
But you can enjoy more freedoms than ever before, &
Stop saying or doing whatever you would rather not
Foreword
The plum-apricot tree bears less
And less fruit somehow
With each passing year
When it grows in my backyard
Its twigs reach higher
And farther to the neighboring yards
Like lines from a poem
Before its author conceives it
Sonnet Starters: a Found Sonnet
When I have fears I may cease to be
Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?
I met a traveller from an antique land
Death, be not proud, though some have allowed thee
How do I love thee: Let me count the ways
Let me not to the marriage of two minds
When I consider how my light is spent
Remember me when I am gone away
I have been one acquainted with the night
Sundays too my father got up early
Earth has not anything to show more fair
Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind
Do not stand at my grave and weep
Love is not all: It is not meat nor drink
Metamorphosis Points
I would paint my skin
Into a colorless color, & I would dye my hair
Wear two blue contacts, & I would even
Go for plastic surgery, but if I really do
I assure you, I will not remove my native village
Accent while speaking this foreign tongue (I began
To imitate like a frog at age nineteen); nor will I
Completely internalize the English syntax &
Aristotelian logic. No, I assure you that I’ll not give up
Watching movies or TV series, reading books
Listening to songs, each in Chinese though I hate them
For being too low & vulgar. I was born to eat dumplings
Doufu, & thus fated to always prefer to speak Mandarin
Though I write in English. I assure you that even if I am
Newly baptized in the currents of science, democracy &
Human rights, I will keep in line with my father’s
Haplogroup just as my sons do. No matter how
We identify ourselves or are identified by others, this is
What I assure you: I will never convert my proto selfhood
Into white Dataism, no, not
In the yellowish muscle of my heart
The Smartphone
At daybreak, my wife unplugs it from the charger
Puts it into her transparent bag & goes to work at YVR
In a hurry, playing with it whenever she can, the gadget
Of post modernity. Occasionally, back at home, I look at it
Feel tempted to unlock it & take a quick peep to see
How much more of a husband it is than me. She had wanted
Her own phone & was delighted when I gave her last year. &
Since we’ve been married over thirty years, it seemed
Like the right time for the gift of a smartphone. A compromise
With the helpless inertia and intricate boredom of marriage
But today I thought of my brother’s wife divorcing him
For failure to strike rich or climb up high. Not smart
Enough to function in her daily life, and much less useful
Than a preprogramed device. How powerful the way a phone
Stays more intimate with a human soul.
My son is a senior
Engineer at the Apple, where he spends every minute
In front of a computer, trying to perfect a circuit for another
iPhone to replace more husbandom (or wifedom)
But I just
Cannot unlock it. Everything she wishes from me has now been
Digitalized into this e.machine. With just a soft touch, she obtains
All she needs from a partner that, though non-breathing, proves
Far more attractive than any living soul beyond the virtual reality
Tenancy
Unlike the owner of a house who
Remains plump as a well-fed pet
Static as a loyal rock, accumulating
As the calcium on a reef, I keep moving
From one rented room to another
Like a migratory bird, a seasonal wind
Or a warm current in the sea, where I can
Dump some of my pasts &
Decorate my new residence with all the
Furniture I can afford to get from the future
Haplogroup Hypothesis: My Son Is Mine
The relief I feel today is not my relief
Maybe it’s my late father’s
For a male descendant carrying exactly
The same haplogroup as his son; i.e., for
The biologic fact that he has a grandson
To fulfill his filial duty as did Confucius
The delight I feel today is actually everybody’s.
Everybody is delighted because we are
All offspring of the same DNA Adam
If only we know how to trace back in the big tree
Because as 23&Me’s reports show, we will survive
Even if we continue fighting each other until
The last one: then he will become the next DNA Adam
For the past two decades I’ve had a hidden fear
George may have been wrongly switched at birth
As in a movie or the media, since he neither looks
Nor acts like me at all, but his paternal haplogroup is
O-PK4, consistent With Allen’s or mine (O-F838)
The condolence I feel now is not my condolence
Rather, it’s everyone’s in that there’ll be no problem
For us to keep killing our own species, besides others
They Believe They Are More Advanced
In evolution, because they think
In numerous complicate languages
While we express ourselves just in
Several simple short-syllabled songs
They accumulate stones, graffiti &
Other countless (in)visible items
While we only pick up seeds
Or hunt animals in the open
They live on, for, & around money
While we follow our hearts only
They win their fucking rights
Through face, clothing, money besides stories
While we mate by dancing
Or fighting instead
They are busy trying to develop
Themselves in every human or inhuman way
While we don’t care if we are less
Advanced in nature
I Fly Across the Pacific
Myriad clouds sit still in sun-rimmed shapes
Watching us like so many bloated sphinxes
As we pass through them with mechanic roars
Each passes through our innermost horizons
Cherishing sunlight in its soft heart
& none seems to carry rain or anything else
Darker than a human whim. God knows
How many of them hold earthly dreams
Like seasonal secrets. Similarly, most of
My fellow passengers are still sleeping
In these early hours; their postures as relaxing
As restricted within their confinements, while
A few were watching tv or reading on i-phones
In hypnopomp, I opened a journal & it took me
A moment to realize that a story is unfolding itself
Though what it is really about I can never tell
The main character has vanished into his own
Consciousness & the setting is beginning to collapse
No words are spoken. His soul becomes a migratory
Bird flying to a higher realm of more still clouds
On My Birthday & Off
I don’t remember how many years old
I am, but I do care about my birthday, a time
When I can imagine getting good wishes
Or words. Rather than having a party
With a big cheese cake or a bowl of longevity
Noodles, I would prefer to leave home
For a lonely walk in the country, wandering
In a poetic wonderland
Where I stop to reflect:
For the past decade I have done what I could
By way of a poem, but since it is unlikely I can
Do anything with it, I find it the proper
Occasion to write one last stanza just
To commemorate my yearly visits to Quzhen
Homerburgh, Dantefield, Shakespeareston
Goethestadt, Pushkingrad, Baudelaireville
Nerudastad, Frostdale, & Tagorerboro
New Territory
No two watches (or clocks) tell
Exactly the same story/time
But each difference offers an infinitesimal
Crack inviting a lonely soul to enter
Like a lost spot of sunbeam. Almost
In no time
I come
I see
I conquer
All the new spaces deep in time
Deep Learning
Even when we were still chimpanzees, even
When we are to become breathing robots
We can always hope to enroll in Dream 101
A prerequisite course for humanity
(Not to be confused with ‘humanities’)
Offered neither in the Egyptian hieroglyph
Nor in the Chinese ideogram or
The Greek alphabet, but in
The colors of sunlight
Wakened by stillness, I realized
My dream’s been lost
Among white noises
2018, 8, 30 [Thursday]
Refracted Reflections (1): Inner Penetration
Dripping, constantly
Into the heart
Of the rock
Quietude splashes
Over its whole being
Inside out
RR (2): Transporting
Once the road begins
To run forward
The car can drop us off
At any destination
Beyond earthly traffic
RR (3): Spiritual Freedom
For every human soul, there is
A whole patch
Of sky (or heaven), where
It can fly freely
Only if it can find
A taking-off position up there
RR (4): Self-Discovery
Unlike a handful of mud
Shaped by Fate
Like an urchin, each
Of us is a rubber ball:
The harder we hit
Against a wall
The higher we bounce
RR (5): Return Trip
Collecting our past footprints
As does every lost soul
We live a double life
As if through
A posthumous excursion
I Appreciate It: A Parallel Prose Poem
I appreciate the roof, ceiling, wall, floor every window all the detailed structures of a room
Two Saying Sonnets on Shadow
1/ Sub-Selfhood
Each self of yours
Is nothing(ness)
But a shadow. Depending on
Whether there’s sunshine, or
Where the sun hangs
Above the landscape, your shadow
Keeps changing itself
Within a shapeless shape
Sometimes shorter, other times longer
Always moving around your proto being
Bloated against light
Under the sun, the moon, or
A lamp deep in the valley
Of darkness surging towards dawn
2/ Cast by a Light
Hiding in a shadow
You cannot complain
Against the unfairness, or
Injustice of the sunlight
On a clear day
Thoughts are the shadows
Of our feelings – always
Darker
Emptier
And simpler
So, keep your face
Ever
Towards the sun, and
Shadow
Will fall behind you
Hearing the Wind
You left there in old age
A snow ball off the slope
Heard a bus to heaven (or to hell)
Heard a field without any crop growing there
Which may have been reserved for an alien growth
Heard a young girl across the street
Dancing around a crowd of robots getting newly old
Heard a bomber taking off the New Foundland
While frogs were singing a lost monody
On the other side of the world at midnight
Heard a key hit hard before a blinking screen
& a naked body turning & twisting constantly on bed
Heard a couple of blackbirds tangoing on a powerline
& myriad leaves falling against autumn
Heard an icicle beginning to melt under the afternoon sun
Ready to shed tears in memory
Of last storm:
Shhh, my Lord, just let sounds
Fill up my ears, and heart stealthily
Accident
Fiction hit
The fact hard, and ran
With truth per se
Being the only witness
No Internet, No Life
Once off the line, the fish
Would die of the hook
Gnawing deep into the heart
Truth
The facts have buried themselves
Deep in fiction, where
History stands tall & straight
Like a wordless tombstone
Sonnet in Infinitives
To be
a matter when there’s no question
Or not to be
a question when nothing really matters
To sing
with a frog squatting straight
On a lotus leaf in the Honghu Lake
near Jingzhou
To recollect
all the pasts, and mix them
Together like a glass of
cocktail
To build
a nest of meaning
Between two broken branches on
Ygdrasil
To strive
for deity
Longevity
and
Even happiness
To come
on and off line every other while
To compress
consciousness into a file, and upload it
Onto a nanochip. To be
daying, to
die
In the Shadow of Socrates
Someone tells me I look like Laozi
It is the way my forehead protrudes
Or maybe it is my eyes
Someone mentions Socrates to me
Though I am not interested in his maieutics
Nor does he seem to care about my indifference
Anyway, I remain as silent as Sphinx
Or Laozi’s Dao which, once articulated
In a human speech, would become totally lost
Like truth
Like wisdom
Like any authentic knowledge
While Socrates pursues his argument persistently
I move my proto being far away
From every shaped human
He enjoys arguing
I believe whatever is voiced
Will get lost in void
He upholds logic
I uphold mythicism as someone tries to bring me
Under the influence of the Greek syntax &
Cast Socrates’s shadow on my thinning soul
But I shy away farther to an unknown forest, where
I will eventually die alone
Like an old African elephant that does not want to
Disturb the progression of
A whole migratory family
Snowing in Spring
In the wild open west, flakes keep falling
Like myriad baby angels knocked down from Paradise
Blurring the landscape behind the vision
Hunting each consonant trying to rise above
The ground. The day is brighter, lighter &
Softer than the feel. Soon there will be
Dirty prints leading to everywhere (or nowhere)
& no one will care how the whole world will collapse
In blasphemy. The missing cat won’t come to
Trespass the lawn, nor will the daffodil bloom
To catch a flake drifting astray. Nobody bothers even to think
About where the season is held up on its way back, how
The fishes are agitating under the pressure of wintry
Water, why people wish to see more and more snow
The Past
More than enough has been recollected
About being in the past. It’s no time
To be, yet except for a handful few, many
Keep filling in the blanks of the present
With the leftovers of the past, or catching
The past from the present moment as if the present
Were a tail of a vanishing fish rather than
A rock from which the colt is running
To the rising sun. Indeed, the trouble with
The past is that it is deadly lost in the white pages
Of history. Plus, even if the past can be edited, but never
Be rewritten. So, let’s move to the future where
The wise men want us to, where the pasts cannot
Prevent us from surpassing the present
