We are but specks of dust

We are but specks of dust catching the light and moving with the breeze.

We came from distant places to this earth that is blue, so that we may become ocean.

We are here to shine, and embrace sorrows and joys.

We are here to be kind, and speak words of comfort.

We came a long time ago,and since then, some have forgotten that it is to love that we are here.


I do not

I do not write about lingering sunsets, falling blossom petals, the light in the early morning or even about birds taking flight.

I do not use metaphors either. Using the beauty of the world to describe emotions, renders all things oh … just so so banal.

There is no need to trap beauty into words and fancy imagery, forcing it to jump through loops of twisted grammatical constructs.

As for emotions, if you love, if you feel sad; just say it! No need for the rain to take the place of your tears. Your tears are beautiful just as they are.

In this self-centered world, where poetry is measured in hits and likes, as though it was a piece of furniture, I admit to finding little solace in the words of others.

So I lean back on the old Masters like Verlaine and Kobayashi and Hafez and Pushkin and Wang Wei and Victor Hugo and Rumi and Li Pao and Neruda and Basho, and many others.

When I hold a book of their poetry, the world slows down, everything becomes tenderly subtle and I can then hear the silence of beauty.


I know one day it will happen

I know one day it will happen.

I will place my hands on the soil,
I will sprout dandelions
and the morning breeze will carry me away.

I will lie on the grass
and I will become a tree
and small birds will come
and build a nest in my hair,
they will sing and sigh
and they will love.

I will no longer need a window to see the world.
The sun will shine through my eyes.
I will be alone and with all at once.

I will know the feeling of the flutter of wings,
I will soar beyond the mountains
and I will become a kite free from its wire.

I will swim in the large open sea
and I will not drown.
I will stay with the schools of fish
and move with their grace,
unfettered and unburden,
the sun reflecting on my scales.

I will dance along the daffodils
and I will burst out of the rock effortlessly
like the poppy flowers.

I will be the rain and the river
and I will become the clear water
that flows in the public fountain
where children come to play.

I know one day it will happen.


Not a trace

A flock of birds flies north.
Two tired bees buzz near the blooming lavender.
A cloud, mindless.
The last ray spreads its gold.
The birds leave not a trace in the sky.


Note: “Mindless cloud”: In Zen poetry as well as in classical Chinese poetry, the cloud is often a metaphor for the mind –floating, shifting, insubstantial.