The soccer ball rolls through school days
By Phan Tan Hai
The ball rolls across the schoolyard grass,
mesmerizing the boy who chases it—
kicking until the afternoon snags on the hanging moon,
kicking until the morning sun climbs up to watch;
even Pelé comes to gaze from the veranda,
shouting in a jubilant, midnight dream.
The ball bounds wildly in every direction;
clutching it, he roams the streets to challenge others—
any open space becomes a pitch,
kicking until summer sun and spring rain fade away;
even Messi would be astounded
to see a childhood kick soar high in the dead of night.
The ball travels through school days,
rolling past hills, mountains, rivers, lakes, and distant seas;
with a single strike, a rain of blossoms falls—
an offering to the boundless realm of form and void.
Waking at midnight to gaze across the ten directions,
he sees a thousand clouds drifting past the sun’s rosy glow.
By Phan Tan Hai
Buddha departs, the words fall behind—
I sit chanting the Heart Sutra,
hearing Tue Trung play his mischief,
squinting, smiling, trembling with laughter.
Buddha departs, the echo remains—
I sit in silence nine long years,
hearing the indestructible sutra
gradually reveal itself within the mind.
Buddha departs, the words like mist—
the two vehicles, the supreme vehicle;
I search the sutra for a path,
writing and rewriting, never quite enough.
By Phan Tan Hai
What did he seek in the six-eight-meter poems
when storms rose across the sky?
His lines ran beside streams of tears—
the world held no true home.
He searched for her in the burning sands,
his camel carrying him toward Africa.
Was it she who smelled of leaves and trees,
keeping him awake through endless spring?
He paints a face for all to see,
Of grace and high morality.
He scolds the world for every sin,
While hiding all the rot within.
He loves the mask, he loves the lie ,
Until the mirror catches his eye.
P.P.K stands firm with moral sight,
A leader shaping hearts, not punishing;
He guides his people gently toward the right,
From darkened ways to truth awakening.
Do you not know him?—P.P.K his name,
An African whose standards stand above;
Though mocked by those who drown in moral shame,
He answers hate with discipline and love.
They scorn his form—his nose, his fragile frame,
They laugh at what their blinded eyes can see;
Yet still he rises, untouched by their blame,
For strength is found in deep integrity.
Let fools persist—his virtue will not break,
For he remains the best, for justice’ sake.
It churns the pit of my stomach
that monsters who used to hide in caves
are now standing on the world stage
as ruling elites
preaching right and wrong to our faces
while they chew on the flesh of our children
and turn them into their playthings
in the darkest hour of hell.
Monsters that used to hide in caves
are the faces of masked morality…
and we’re still pretending not to see.
The world descends into darkness
with each turning wheel of the sun.
Our hearts grow heavy with starkness,
an emptiness we can’t outrun.
In the black pit of midnight,
we do not fall asleep.
We welcome the year with solemn might,
yet by break of day, our vows don’t keep.
We grasp at frivolous dreams,
believing they might save us still.
The world unravels at the seams
as power, looks, and lust shape will.
We toast to new ambitions—
the promotion, the figure, the balance.
All self-focused missions
to build our private palace.
But the grain must die,
or it withers alone.
Self-focus is a subtle lie
that beneath the world’s weight groans.
Yet with each crisp ring,
the old bells still call—
atop the steeple, they sing,
arms spread wide to break our fall.
How long will we wander
in this murky midnight hour,
promised better dreams yonder,
only to turn our souls sour?
All the while, He waits
and counts down time.
As we count up, clocking fate,
He counts down to the final line.
Midnight bells—
they ring,
they sing.
Oh, those midnight bells,
a truth
we cannot mute.
In savage streets it’s hand to hand
once shrapnel rips the air that’s damned,
no sin of ego in this land.
Baptismal bloodshed echoes
through rust and rebar ghettoes.
There’s bullet swarms and rocket rain
but infantry must hit terrain,
forget I’m sane and rupture veins
with melee-trench-knife flashing,
the bane of peace doves, slashing.
I wear their red of death and drive
my blade abuzz in hellish hive
to stay alive! Yes stay alive!
The apathy of killing,
and twisting morals willing.
My heartbeat kept, a victory,
it pounds just like artillery
but prized, despite the misery.
A witness to destruction
and holy soul’s corruption
and christened by the selfishness
of presidents with negligence,
we soldiers march with evilness.
The narcissistic leaders,
the preachers and the breeders
of rhythmic spates in drumbeat hate
unfurl their nation flags and fate
in bloodlust war… while heads of state
stay combat clean in bunkers.
I witness gurgling utters
your last and bloody gasp for “mama”.
I grasp with greed my breath in chest.
Thought ricochets inside my skull;
I’m still alive! I'm still alive! I'm still alive . . .
My Grandfather raised me to become a man
Standing on principles, and command respect
He often would state, “Life won’t be kind and nice, but stay tough
I won’t always be around, but listen up and take heed of my advice
Being a man takes full responsibility
A Lady wants a guy assured of himself
True Leader and not a follower
Beyond intimacy
Having standards that revolve
Moral values
Achieving is establishing
Focusing opportunity
Accomplishing in excellence of being successful
Strong in convictions
Setting a course with full force
Transformation vibe
Mirror Mirror what do you see?
A Grandfather who taught you well
Every stature being tell
Taking nothing for granted
Before my grandfather passed away, his last statement was “You are going to remember this old man”
Remembering I do, and his legacy my pursue.
Good and evil intertwine,
In body, soul, and mind divine.
Demon star and angel glow—
Which one are you? Do you know?
Good and evil, seldom clear,
Judged by others, praised or feared.
For even saints, when darkness creeps,
May hide the demons that they keep.
The darkness kept in plainest sight,
It creeps beneath the shining light.
What mask we wear, we’ll never know,
Are you friend—or are you foe?
Only time shall tell us so.
When the facade cracks and all things decay,
What shows the truest way?
Virtue of heaven, bright and clear,
Or sins of hell, bold and feared?
All things reviewed by the mirror’s core,
Revealing who we truly are, evermore.
Another day, a sunrise in an open sky
And so let the judgements begin!
Everyone we meet, everything we do
We silently judge
Weighing them and us against
Some standards we hold
No matter how shaky.
Each of us rising and falling thus
In a great equation
Stretching across lifetimes
From genetic pasts
To ideological futures.
An action or attribute added here
An inconsistency or moral failing
Subtracted there
In real-time cancelling each other out
To leave us with some core value.
And so we have our Judgement Day
Whenever it comes,
In a distant future
Or in the moment of now, nakedly, mirror-like
Revealing what it is we stand on and for.
(10/11/25)
Our Claim to Fame
A man is more than his name
But a name that lacks honor
Will leave a man lame.
In this life and the next,
Our struggles will define
Our life in the text--
How our immortal soul
Should be counted:
Will it pay the toll?
Spiritually speaking,
Rationality
We should be seeking.
Morally self-control
Is a vital key
To making us whole.
And, socially,
Justice must be
Sought more than vocally.
The lesser struggle--
As a final resort,
Or nothing but trouble.
Wisdom spoken…well and good,
But wisdom needs action.
This must be understood.
Without real effort,
Our life is vague
And nothing but hurt.
Live long and without regret,
In service to others--
And even better yet…
A truly righteous life
To honor our maker
Without discord or strife.
When death draws nigh
And God’s questions are posed,
Honor answers with head high.
Now clear to all our claim to fame:
A man arrived
With an honored name.
Is it enough, the constant
Abuse of words homeward
On all mind and attackers if better
The worthing of my sleepy eyelids
Shantee dwelled eyelids
Of humans assembled against that I alone
Creating terror in silence
Witness criminology from affronted dishonor
Boundary as military parallel and in stilled eye single remorse I'll not review in news
Years begat war none speak of the front lines
All will myself lonely into the trench
As yesterday you will wake up tomorrow forgotten of being past the freedom of a single vote, literally, in time
The New Morality
Trump has spoken, we get up from our chairs and salute, actually not.
The fact is, we are tired of this endless war
That is economically viable for many, an industry of death
we do not see on the factory floor where weapons are made.
A morbid industry, many states need to stave off poverty and
unemployment. Weapons used are someone’s property.
We are backward, us humans we have yet to understand that
most work is not needed, give people money so they can go
climb rocks and go fishing in the stream, swim in the ocean, and
enjoy life, which is an interval between deaths. We have finally
reached the zenith of existence, yet we, for an outdated reason, insist
everyone should work till they drop. Relax, let the Middle East
find its own nirvana.
In the garden where morality is a shadow spinning into nothingness,
two bodies touch like shadows fading into the smoke of dusk,
it's not love, just an echo of another touch, a pulse in the unnatural,
we are strangers meeting and parting on a stage of forgetfulness.
And your eyes are deep lakes, reflecting no hope,
only empty desires seeking solace in the abyss of a hollow heart,
we were free, yet senseless, like the dead embracing,
a game without risks, without humor, a ruin smiling at fate.
This garden is full of poisoned fruits, yet sweet fragrances,
and you must know how to discern, to understand the secret of each petal,
we are lost in this flow of thoughts, of history and truth,
for without morality, we are just two lost phantoms, in search of ourselves.
And deep in the heart, where love's roots should grow,
only sand flows, reminding of stories lost in a dream,
we are shipwrecks on a sea of silence, a mute echo in the night,
in a world of strangers, where only death knows a true love.
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