While walking to the tomb of Confucius

Piles of Dirt


Piles of dirt sprout weeds that bend to stones
Rains and worms hide humps of ancient ones
Bones poke through to bleach in Qufu’s suns

Cypress trees too right and left to fall
Hand polished burls laying split and sprawled
Slabs of entombed words are smashed or sold

Porsches now evoke a solemn awe
To be rich is glorious, is the saw
All the other virtues aren’t as raw

Though Kongzi was a hard-hit chisel
Winds would still sculpt a person in full
Would he have gone unfound in that hole


     Piles of dirt = Ancient burial practice, found in the cemetery of 
     Confucius in Qifu, as well as anywhere one looks in fields throughout China.
     Cypress = Conifer known for its longevity and heavy, burled trunks,
     which are honored for the symbolism and heritage.
     To be rich is glorious = Attributed to Deng Xiaoping, Chairman of the People’s
     Republic of China, and symbol of “capitalism with Chinese characteristics.”
     Kongzi = Confucius
     Hole = Confucius was abandoned as an infant by his mother in a shallow
     cave because of his ugliness.  Kept alive by an eagle and tiger, his mother
     realized her mistake and dedicated to his education.


Written along Westlake, Hangzhou

Kyeongja Considers Her Childhood at Xi Hu


Next to me, Kyeongja 
Winding a long shore
Where water lilies coerce
Branches to the water

How she sees beyond
Arched bridges:  Korea
Her careening seas
Missing on Mendota

As a girl, her teeth
Flirted with the sky
Wondering how wide
Tae Pyung Yang


     
      Tae Pyung Yang = Pacific Ocean

Attempted a Chinese tone. Fun to read, as its sound conveys as much as the content.

On Rivers


How many Hongwu stones
      to the Tomb
   Of Zhu Yuanzhang?

Where is the fabled song
      aloft in the
   Temple Kongzi?

Why are stars hiding 
     behind a silken
   Sky of Qizhou?

What price elegance 
     along the shores of
   Xi Hu, Hangzhou?

When do souls rise
     liberated from the
   Pits of Nanjing?

Who is this grasping 
     for dreams atop
   Pagoda Lei Feng?

    Are the questions deep
Or do they float like petals on
        Rivers in Zhongguo?

This arose from a petty controversy in my neighborhood about whether children should be playing on the rock pile after the construction workers went home.

Rock Piles


Ukrainians fear for homeland
Assad walks free.  Tibetans pray
At the gate of the Mandarin school
Preparing to starve, the Sudanese
And as air surpasses 400 ppm of CO2
Kids stand atop the Near West Side rock pile
Squinting to see it all
  
            But their voices, their smiles

Whitman, bored on the shelf
Children, driven cautiously around piles
That once hauled brave quests to their peaks
He would have climbed too, howling
At liberty in the neighborhood, tilting
Down Commonwealth.  Safety--that quality
Forgotten when rushing--falling

            Silent and inconsequential

Accustomed to the new regime
In yards and work and fears
Our necks bent over tablets
Overhead the Sandhill Cranes
Are circling should we look
Question directions, walk to the shelf
Unwrap that book that once spoke

            Nothing of safety

Chinese pragmatist, Hu Shih: Creator



你不能做我的詩。
正如我不能做你的夢

You cannot write my poems
Just as I cannot dream your dreams.
-Hu Shih


Buried in a tomb in Nankang
Reformer, scholar, diplomat
In an era of change, Hu Shih
Whispering to the poet:
Evolve

Let him cultivate and stimulate
Solve problems.  Do not imitate
The ancients. Hu's marriage:
Arranged. Girl, illiterate, feet
Bound

Speak, said Hu, when you have
Something to say. Substance,
Then subtlety, in the way you want
In the language you live, without
Cliché


Defining poetry

Defining Poetry on a Sunday Morning in Bed


Poetry:  Off-ramp for creativity on our subjective turnpikes
                  when routine paves over shards and gems.

Poetry:  Desire.
Poetry:  Meditating on horizons of concept
                  or experience so as to hover above it.
Poetry:  To make manifest.
Poetry:  Death fright.

Poetry:  Bloom.             
Poetry:  In our attics, an art deco time machine:
                  Polishing. Tinkering. Ordering knobs on eBay.
Poetry:  Faces lit around the campfire.
Poetry:  The virgin birth.

Poetry:  Regime.
Poetry:  Denny’s, Tangiers, trains, New Orleans,
                  The Times, Tegucigalpa, et cetera.
Poetry:  Rugby fools without helmets in the mud.
Poetry:  Pickup lines to ourselves.

Poetry:  How much of it--how stunning--has never become
                   in the yawning canyon of man.

About a student who was authentic, affable and will be missed.

At Age 24, You Left Us
For Topher Kazanski


A busted guard rail, skid marks, echoing
Gasps at your last curve in life, leaving
Your Facebook photos hanging off a cliff
In Oregon

Your great grandfather, Aldo Leopold
Looked up too.  Did you observe a slim
Disappearing line, or the fleeting
Dome of earth?

Are your expectations confirmed on
Cars and curves and precipices?
We all plunge     just not yet, if we
Are reading this

It may be this line and its awkward
End.  Maybe around the next bend
Thanks to you, Topher, age 24
We breath in

Breath out wondering when to brace
Tumble, sail or, like a playing card
Swoop in arcs before landing
Upside down

                      In the river Yaquina