a raven
perches on the white cross
by the roadside
of Highway 401...
summer clouds fleeting
a
butterfly
beats its wings on the window...
I blanket
my one-week-old tanka
waiting for summer rain
she
and I
now speak different languages
but sleep in the same bed....
what was and what is
an ocean apart
I can't open
my eyes in spring sunlight
can you, Issa?
this floating life
is a dream without you
long
day's work...
the Chinese takeout brings
the steamy smell
from Mom's Taiwan kitchen
to my Ajax attic
Tanka Prose
You
Are My Resting Place
Tomorrow, my
birthday, age of forty. Shut in the attic. My shadow
swaying back and forth on the wall.
for the
moon alone
waiting in drunken silence ...
His shadow
springs beside me
in every memory
Being-in-the-World
day by
day
I get up, eat, read, write
and sleep—
my mind grows grayer
with each night's dream
“What is
human life?” I once asked my philosophy professor. I
didn’t get a satisfactory answer then, and don’t have
one even now.
It is commonly believed that human life is like a blade
of grass that sprouts in early spring, grows green and
strong in summer, and then, as time slips by, withers in
late autumn, and finally dies out in winter.
I stare
at the sun steadily
seeing Death
wave to me
I wave back and start writing
