Long A thousand Poems
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In those dark eras of the split, to live was to be alone,
A calculated isolation chilling to the bone.
They hid inside their separate pits and hoarded what they kept,
While just beyond the blast-doors, all their starving neighbors wept.
Lysander watched a nearby vault collapse into the grime,
Their priceless banks of ancient seeds destroyed by mold and time,
Because they lacked the synthesis, the codes to make them grow,
Held by a hostile bunker just a thousand yards below.
They traded only in their scars and deep, ancestral dread,
A territorial madness that infected every bed.
The mind locked in a cage of concrete learns to hate the dark,
But hates the neighbor even more who carries still a spark.
Lysander saw the rot was not a scarcity of bread,
But the absolute division of the living from the dead.
The lonely mind was screaming out behind a wall of stone,
And so he took the broken blueprints time had left alone.
He did not build with iron wire, he did not work with brass,
For metal was the weapon of the executioner class.
Instead, he grew a softer thing along the dripping wall:
A bioluminescent moss that answered to his call.
A fibrous, pale conductor made of cellular design,
That mimicked how the brain-waves spark along a living line.
A living loom of emerald wool, a bright, organic lace,
To knit the fractured pieces of a broken species' face.
For twelve long years he labored there, a surgeon in the night,
He harvested his cortex for the seeds of golden light.
He took microscopic biopsies from his own thinking brain,
And spliced them into mossy veins to cultivate the strain.
He became the anchor node, the root within the deep,
And when he lay his crooked spine down on the floor to sleep,
The Sunken Spire would start to pulse, a soft and rhythmic gleam—
The first erratic heartbeat of a solitary dream.
Here you are an innocent little girl,
just starting to learn what goes on in this world.
You don't know yet that life can be cruel,
so you sing and dance your whole day through.
Now you are beginning to feel the things a woman desires,
never thinking of what may transpire–
You little girl, are the woman of tomorrow!
It is you that may experience a life with sorrow!
Why do you let yourself be so easy?
How is it you're so blind to see
that while you run around
chasing many men in town,
a new life is living inside of you?
Ignorance to reality–you cannot ignore.
What was fun and a game–is no more.
Think now of this child growing inside of you,
the choice of life or death–think it through!
It is not only about you, but the child in you.
Does it scare you because you can’t live as you do?
Do you know your life will be tied with a thousand strings
as you raise the life of another being?
You could end the life of what you call your mistake.
Think long and hard about the decision you make.
You will live your life now and forever,
never can you erase that you ended the child of tomorrow!
184021
a thousand roots, and oh to one
i have seen your bark split open
and i know the ache you call rot
but what i see is not decay—
it is softness where light
has finally found a way in
the moss creeps gently
not as a thief, but as a witness
draping your arms in green silence
tending to the cracks
like a prayer, slow and deliberate
they will say a tree is only worth
its shadow, its shelter, its fruit
but i know the truth—
you are worth the space you hold,
even when no one remembers the seed
not every wound is ruin,
not every hollow means hunger
sometimes what looks like ending
is simply a resting place
for the breath that carries us forward
so bend, willow,
bend until your branches touch the earth
and let them whisper this:
there is no rot in you—
only moss, only time, only life
Born with a complex like a tormented fugitive in a constant flight from a life of acceptance, his Life is filled with questions and complexities. There is no room
for blame. In a secret place, he was crafted skillfully; non are the same.*
Stored away in my garage are many items of relative values. Some have little
to no value and are pleading for me to tossed them. Others are just put in containers relative to their size and shape. Some totes contain various items
with distinct labels of identity. Some are boxed; some are in totes; some are very clearly 'marked'. Fragile people are Like boxes of beautiful jars and
choice pottery. Such ones must be cushioned and shielded, with postings, signs, and markings, less they be broken in a thousand pieces. There is a
Divine Mandate requiring us to be sensitive and protective of them. To do less is to be a lesser human. Always present is that inability to stand
up to conflict and withstand insensitive people. He cries easily and hurts badly. He requires special touches of love and human kindness. The 'marked
ones' are so designated, not because he is more important; but rather, because he is so very fragile, and must be handled with care. The one who
would dare to bully or mistreat him will himself be uncovered and revealed as one with much disfunction and sickness. No elasticity; No bouncing ability; No
flexibility; as if crafted in a sea of glass. He is entrenched with fragility. Finished and matured glass is highly useful, but is very vulnerable and easily
cracked and broken. Some of us are strong and solid like a rock. Some of us are weak and vulnerable like sheets of glass. We all are made in God's image
and likeness. You and I have an intrinsic worth of high and equal value. May we be as HE who notices every falling bird**, and embraces us as HIS friends.
10132017 PS Contest, Fragility, Hamilton,5P *Psalm 139:15, **Matthew 10:39
About time,
I've paid my dues I've crossed the line,
This moment I thought would never come,
Is in my grasp, the deed now done.
Don't get me wrong, I loved my Mum,
But all that passed would surely stun
Even a saint or the Lord above,
So tiring being an aimless dove.
Now I'm ready to take the world by storm,
Show them my worth, no longer act forlorn,
The wife I always wanted by my side,
I can finally get into my Kingly stride.
The Little niggle that remains,
Harry's willful character that pains,
I've summoned experts to hear what they might say
To finally obtain a sample of his mysterious DNA.
I'm not claiming he's not mine,
But as Americans would shout, ‘I wouldn't bet a dime’,
Thank goodness I've got my other boy,
A stand-up chap that brings me nothing but pure joy.
As to Camilla, my soulmate from the start,
From whom they never could tear me far apart,
She now stands by me as my Queen,
You saw me beam with joy like a lovestruck teen.
Don't get me wrong,
I'm painfully aware my reign may not be long,
But while I'm here, I plan to make my mark,
Understanding this job is no cakewalk in the park.
I've got the Aussies wanting to jump ship.
The Canadians on their own perennial trip,
The Scots plotting for a Clansman King,
And Parliament seeking me do next to nothing.
Yet I've got a plan,
Something that will surely stun,
Become a multimedia star,
And thus take them all across the bar.
I can jig, dance and sing,
Fly helicopters, do pretty much of anything,
Plant trees, help save our World
How can all of this be thought absurd.
Politicians just blow smoke,
Send their countries near flat broke,
I instead bring Billions in
Collecting smiles from wheresoever I have been.
That said let me enjoy my moment in the sun,
Reflecting on all that's been and done,
My resolve is firm, my duty clear,
My life's work is aimed at all, both far and near.
So rest easy, enjoy the ride,
Sailing smoothly on a flowing tide,
Over a thousand years in the making
My oath is one of giving and not taking.
Alas, I lie, awakened mind
Drifting into God-forsaken
time.
Unconsciously unaware
A war rages under there.
Perspicacious subconscious me
I beseech thee, listen now,
hear my plea.
Blood-drunken sword lay at
thine side.
Allow me rest, dear captain,
just one night
A thousand strong is our
enemies' might
But skirmish, must we, through
twilight?
Perspicacious subconscious me
Understand you not the
insanity?
Demons defeated, victory
blood-bought,
But at steeper price? I pray
thee, give thought!
Perspicacious subconscious me
Must Ego die for victory?
And what of, after, his brother
and friend?
Must I then, too, let go of him?
Leave me, will you, with only
insatiable drive
And let it be that beast Id alone
will rise?
Perspicacious subconscious me
Battle-born and bred, at the
ready.
In the arms of Morpheus let me
be
As you don cloth, no longer
panoply.
Perspicacious subconscious me
Let me rest and truly sleep
For I have a reverie to
sublimely dream.
Yea, to rest and let you, my
mind, be at peace.
I stepped into a forest where every tree reflected me,
but none with the same expression.
One wept. One smiled. One looked away.
I asked them, Which one am I?
They shattered into a thousand answers.
The ground was glass. I fell upwards.
Gravity obeyed my uncertainty.
My shadow walked ahead, not behind—
impatient, perhaps, to leave me behind.
A voice whispered in reverse:
"Beware the echo that thinks it's original."
I laughed, but the laugh did not belong to me.
A deer passed through, made entirely of eyes.
It saw everything, but never stopped.
In this place, even silence had teeth.
I left a version of myself in every mirror,
and now I’m not sure who escaped.
By Phan Tan Hai
At eighty, looking at this body of five aggregates,
awakening to the truth that form is emptiness;
shimmering like illusion, like reality—
knowing Mother waits on the other shore.
At midnight whispering to the wind,
hearing faintly the echo of sutra verses;
lotus fragrance steeped into ink and paper,
writing slowly from the heart.
Do Nghe once held the pen,
his poetry crossing rivers on ferries,
flowing through a thousand miles of mountains and streams—
only then realizing the ocean is also oneself.
What is it all for—who can know?
A newborn child sends out a laugh;
today we return, gathering things together,
and many more years drift like clouds across the sky.
Eighty—old friend, greetings to you;
you whisper to the autumn wind:
thus, thus, thus it is—
joy handed over like a precious sword.
Once you practiced the craft of delivering babies,
writing letters to newborns;
now looking back, far from the operating room,
standing in the marketplace, grateful for your life.
Was it one day you met again
someone with white hair, eyes brimming—
sitting to feel each breath,
bathing impermanence through flesh and bone.
Joy beyond measure, studying the Buddha,
seeing the moon rise, awakening to Lankatara,
realizing the whole sky is without self,
realizing the Buddha-realm is never far.
Eighty apricot branches in the front yard,
hearing life joyful as the winter wind;
flowers drifting like Dharma rain,
lifting your face, your heart light as emptiness.
Pouring out heart and lungs and liver,
transforming into drifting mist across the sky;
bidding farewell to ten thousand past lives,
birds flying, windswept across the heavens.
Buddha Buddha Buddha—non-dual across the sky;
Zen Zen Zen—sutras chanted without words;
Mind Mind Mind—no self, no dharma;
Do Hong Ngoc—smiling on into eighty.
---- August 2020. Sitting amidst the golden sunlight of a foreign land, I send this from California to celebrate the 80th birthday of the poet Do Hong Ngoc.
King Menelaus' Song aka ( Helen's husband )
A Trojan boy, he stole my love
And I know where he’s hidin’
But all I have’s a thousand ships
I need your help Poseidon
I dare not tell a single soul
But in you I’m confidin’
I want to tear his huge walls down
And stand there right beside him
Poseidon
Poseidon
I hope on me you’re smilin’
I can not live another day
With this pain I’m feelin’
So please let me just have my way
Can’t you see that I am kneelin’
Poseidon
Poseidon
It’s on you waves, I’m ridin’
I know some way, there’ll come a day
I, with my love abidin’
Until that day, all I can say
I’m glad with me You’re sidin’
Poseidon
Poseidon
You’re the best of all the titans
The greys of words or rhymes of yellow,
Twice or tens or millions stacked in a row,
Which one utters the volition of a fellow?
That we'll leave it upon themselves to show,
For themselves will worry about tomorrow.
Brushes of dissonance and ink set ablaze,
Flames atop fan the ashes of charred maze,
Crafty norms inculcated with a strayed gaze,
Gradients untangle those minds of haze,
For mosaic lives in the sun none laze.
A blank canvas a blank slate,
Tabula rasa in comes a vulnerable state,
Lines of coherence they beg with a plate
Quills dance on scrolls not a moment late,
What enters when judgement knocks the gate?
Verbose cache brimmed the silver frames,
Back they stare the strokes and spaces,
Poised purposefully the question lasts,
A thorough conclusion discerned alas-
"Paintings are worth a thousand words
And poems are worth a thousand paintings."