June’s Queen of the Night
By Phan Tan Hai
The Queen of the Night arrives at midnight,
Leaves a trace of scent, then slips away;
My tea remains unfinished—
Why does spring’s prime haste so away?
An unappointed midnight bloom,
Leaving behind a lingering smile;
My verses remain unfinished—
How can I capture that heavenly fragrance?
A midnight farewell, the Queen departs,
A flutter of white robes drifting by;
My words are sent in haste,
Borne by the wind across the clouds.
Like a maiden, the flower vanishes,
Swept far off by the mountain winds;
I stand motionless, gazing out
As moonbeams flood the forest wild.
She leaves in silence,
Moonlight still lingers in my tea;
A sparkling smile in azure eyes,
A memory that refuses to fade.
Bidding farewell as petals turn to dust,
Amidst sunbeams and falling rain;
I chant a thousand sacred sutras
As a rain of blossoms fills the sky.
Bidding farewell as clouds turn to mountains,
My poem pauses mid-flow;
A parting spanning countless lifetimes,
In the breath between form and emptiness.
By Phan Tan Hai
Writing poems endlessly—my hands grow tired,
so I sit down to rest my feet.
White clouds return to the doorway;
we remember each other, a few tender bonds.
Dust settles upon the page,
blurring last night’s ink.
Lifting the pen, I want to weep—
the homeland’s story lies far away.
Seeing clearly the shore of birth and death,
one day I suddenly wish to lie down;
seeing, hearing the joy of stillness—
Being and Non-being both are mind.
Split open the poet’s heart—
in the Lý–Tr?n age, flowers rained from the sky.
This realm feels strangely distant,
mountains and rivers cold along the far road.
— For the birthday of poet Nguyen Luong Vy
By Phan Tan Hai
Holding his alms bowl, the monk walks on,
his robe stitched from clouds across the sky;
we send him back to the mountain corner—
how many partings in a single life.
Standing, sitting—all for the people,
his chest still aching from blades once struck;
tears flooding the three realms,
Avalokitesvara embodied in his form.
A time he left, burdened with sorrow,
feet weary along both banks of the Ganges;
turning back, he awakened as Minh Trí,
his hair falling like dust along the road.
— For my friend Nguyen Cong Bang,
later a Theravada monk with the Dharma name Minh Tri.
By Phan Tan Hai
ink drained, the hand tilts, weary—
the page says its farewell;
fragrant with a century’s words,
the poet’s soul closes its eyes.
the lines lean, trembling,
the hand grows tired;
the verse exhales smoke,
chilling the page,
piercing deep into my soul;
a drop of ink rolls,
round and unending.
By Phan Tan Hai
I sit reading a page of history—
the lines leaning, trembling with sorrow;
my eyes sting as I trace each word,
cold smoke rising into my soul.
I clearly see the names of friends
who died and now appear again,
demanding to charge once more with words—
a battle of humans or ghosts.
I see countless question marks
weighing heavily on every page;
a time as sad as smoke
staining the paper yellow-brown.
A time that feels so distant,
yet still chokes me as I read;
my homeland fills my eyes,
ink blurred but never fading.
Head bowed, I walked for ages—
my hair once so green;
as though a hundred lives have passed,
I look back and it is white.
I carefully record each word,
renewing the lines of poetry;
casting a hundred thousand words
to bloom as flowers on the far shore.
You leave because staying means dying.
You leave because barrel bombs are falling,
chemical weapons are deployed,
your city is under siege,
there's no food,
no water,
no safety.
You leave because you have children and you want them to live.
You pack what you can carry:
documents,
photos,
one change of clothes,
the jewelry your grandmother gave you.
You leave everything else:
your house,
your furniture,
your books,
your life.
You walk.
You walk with thousands of others,
a river of refugees,
all walking in the same direction:
away.
for the children of the Holocaust, Ukraine and Gaza
Where does the butterfly go
when lightning rails
when thunder howls
when hailstones scream
when winter scowls
when nights compound dark frosts with snow
where does the butterfly go?
Where does the rose hide its bloom
when night descends oblique and chill,
beyond the capacity of moonlight to fill?
When the only relief’s a banked fire’s glow,
where does the butterfly go?
And where shall the spirit flee
when life is harsh, too harsh to face,
and hope is lost without a trace?
Oh, when the light of life runs low,
where does the butterfly go?
I'm a refugee
in my own country
I'll never be free
because they've
labelled me
They say I'm far right
And I'm not too bright
Took away free speech
Now it's out of reach
My mother would tell me
as I sat upon her knee
how we had saved the world
from tyranny.
She'd say how great we were
how freedom was our spur
I had no idea this situation
could occur.
I'm a refugee
In my own country
And if I speak out
They'll throw away the key
David Cox 07/09/24
Warming myself in the fire of the sun, why must the soil be so cold?
Listen closely, and I'll show you a story of ancestors I never knew
They had a place like this that they called home, or so I was told
Watch intently; I'll unfold my own fable heard before you like they grew
Down the blackest hole, the richest safety I would know, I began to take hold
Wait patiently; here comes a thin line of green brought by a stream of blue
In good time, don't prop me up now! No trust; I will hold my own crown
You sleep so calmly without remorse in your house for hours eightfold
I've been sweating all night, hoping that morning won't come, only to cut me down
Then you come with hands and fingers, pulling out the nails that held together the place I made anew
Now, I'm just another refugee; controlled by the view you hold
As the war in Ukraine continues,
Millions of refugees flee
with a target on their backs.
They rush down
the few open corridors left,
Looking at their gadgets
for the latest information,
Hoping to live another day.
The refugee organization staff
Try to keep track of their movement
Amid the cracking of the bombs falling.
“
Is This a Way to Live”
“The Innocent”
As warplanes thunder overhead
We rise from our beds
And wonder,
Is this a way to live?
“The Soldier”
As he crouches in a frozen trench
Amidst the falling snow
He wonders,
Is this a way to live?
“The Mother”
As she lays to eternal rest
Her little one,
She wonders,
Is this a way to live?
“The Refugee”
She cannot explain
Her hunger pains
She wonders,
Is this a way to live?
“The Commander”
How many more
Must I send to their graves
He wonders,
Is this a way to live?
“The Priest”
As he prepares the body
For Its journey to the other side
He wonders,
Is this a way to live?
When the dust settles,
The warplanes are quieted,
The flowers planted,
We must ask,
Why are we living this way?
Refugees
Not aliens, once citizens
reduced to Stateless beings
Not because of own making
On run as find life simmering
due to anarchy set afire
by mindless Power bearers
Womb of their myopic terror
sans umbilical cord giving birth
to orphan refugees on Mother Earth
Refugees
ignored by
Heartless Progressive tribes
some busy in fun trip to Mars
some listed as Forbes billionaire
some relishing edible gold powder
some using gilted commodes,cars
while refugee families live in fear
in temporary abodes near border
sans food, clothes, clean water
Refugees
ensnared pawn in crossfire
beart brunt, while killers
of Refugee's Nationality
aren't probed, booked, jailed !
Lady Justice stands blindfolded
Scales tilted against Refugees
Sword not chopping cruelty gross
Killers of Refugee's identity
roaming scot-free with impunity
Refugees
man-made menace
pose a great challenge
Society should ensure
none is made to flee
as after effects are grave
Refugee can turn bad apple
rotting full basket of Humanity
shaming HIS Creativity
humiliating HIS Divinity
______________________________
© Dr Hitendra Mehta, India ????
Refugees
Not aliens, once citizens
reduced to Stateless beings
Not because of own making
On run as find life simmering
due to anarchy set afire
by mindless Power bearers
Womb of their myopic terror
sans umbilical cord giving birth
to orphan refugees on Mother Earth
Refugees
ignored by
Heartless Progressive tribes
some busy in fun trip to Mars
some listed as Forbes billionaire
some relishing edible gold powder
some using gilted commodes,cars
while refugee families live in fear
in temporary abodes near border
sans food, clothes, clean water
Refugees
ensnared pawn in crossfire
beart brunt, while killers
of Refugee's Nationality
aren't probed, booked, jailed !
Lady Justice stands blindfolded
Scales tilted against Refugees
Sword not chopping cruelty gross
Killers of Refugee's identity
roaming scot-free with impunity
Refugees
man-made menace
pose a great challenge
Society should ensure
none is made to flee
as after effects are grave
Refugee can turn bad apple
rotting full basket of Humanity
shaming HIS Creativity
humiliating HIS Divinity
______________________________
© Dr Hitendra Mehta, India ????
Means you walk with a mute dignity
And because the touch has a memory, you can no longer make another one,
No sea can reveal to you the joy of its flowing and its every wave is shackled with corpses and identities of drowned people, no land will welcome your shy steps.
To be a refugee
You have to wear a stainless smile in front of their serrated gaze.
You have to get rid of your ancient history,
Your mother's prayer for your safety, which no longer works
The wisdom of your ancestors, which they left to you before they disappeared into their graves.
To be like me,
You have to peel off your skin, pull out your tongue in order to get along with the crowds that are waiting for any slight movement from you to finish you off.
Above you have to be very sane in the streets that know nothing but where madness erupts,
And like swimming in a river of blood, you will remain stained until the end.
Variety is the spice of life
At least that's what they say..
We celebrate different colours
Yet the world still chooses grey
There's room for different flavours
Whether green leaf, pulse or grain
Banana loaf or carrot cake?
Nutrition stays the same
The truth it seems is constant
With the source identified;
Humans - not so different
On this planet we reside
As this year rumbles onwards
I throw love into the mix;
Not to colourise the whole world
Just my local bit to fix
No longer are we separate sides
Of some bridge-less, gaping fissure..
Maybe same-ness is the spice of life
As we share more than we differ.
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