Time i see it not.' Yet its journey has yet not stopped' if two hundred years were
The span of your days.? You would read
Better, the woes of each age' failing this
Hit the history trail, if more did could have
Less seething, or tantying, or railing rage.? Look at 1853; 56.' You might get to learn of dark tricks, 1910 a time of Spanish flu, 1914 and a war just grew? Forty one years untill the second go.' To clear out
fachists is the way it did go.' 1965 we got
Into nam..' right after the Korean one
damn! con-vid has been and gone
If you were two hundred now you
would have lived through every, one..Maybe you can see a pattern now, old europe can be a greedy sow, many world leaders, on puppet strings, its not just a theory, things
Turn to similar in our timeframe again, convid has been and gone' old europe eyes Crimea again..For you see a stratagist, once said who rules there, holds the world, in a
pillory, Fred or charlie or wally? Or who.? Can't you see
On which foot is the shoe.' I suggest you find out really fast, or your jacksie, might
Get one up it? way too hard' and, quite fast.'
Is our true love was going anywhere?
After traditional local fun fair
Nothing does compare, with the teasing scare
Where we share, our mature teen age affair
Passing written notes, from pens we borrow
Wonder about future, unknown horror
Sunny blue skies? After we say goodbye?
Studying college courses are new try
Meeting new friends, saying, he’s a nice guy
Semester we wander getting credit
Attend class confessing "should have read it"
Or the other excuse, “I don’t get it”
Compass directs one to the campus bar
Healing wounds from the bloody mark grade scar
And making out with a long neck lone star
'A Guide to a Bonfire Win'
Good food and good cheer with your kin.
Some beer and grilled meat,
a special sweet treat,
and wash it all down with some gin!
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.
I did not study
I failed, so I studied more.
I failed a wrong test
Pages of a diary scatter the floor
Litter of secret hopes of heretofore.
The owl, sipping port in his study,
Perusing philosophy muddy,
Proclaimed “Kant is cant,
And read more I shan’t,
I well know a fowl fuddy-duddy!”
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.
I gazed at the warmth
in your smile,
careful not to meet your eyes,
stepping back just enough
to stay in control.
Sitting on the balcony,
waiting to watch
your first sip of coffee,
where sunlight touched your skin,
and I lost my balance quietly.
I could choose to touch,
embrace,
even choose to love you.
I didn't.
This fleeting moment
is too fragile
to endure a touch.
Longing to become
two statues mirroring each other,
hung from a cathedral,
resisting time.
Thousands would cross between us,
yet I would remain fixed on you.
Witnessing uncountable battles
over the centuries,
gazing at the fractures in you.
Beneath loud voices in prayer,
and still I would find
your silence.
When our time comes,
even reduced to dust,
we would resist.
Paralyzed in memory,
frozen in pictures made of us,
carried through stories
that will age before us.
In that stillness,
I would hold nothing of the world.
A simple move
would be impossible.
Still—
I would have you.
Now—
I realize
I was yours too.
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?
If it were ever possible to be seen or heard,
it would amaze me
to find myself inside you
my shape carved
by the harsh reality
of what you made of me.
I am a thing—
a jigsaw of
your silent prayers,
crumbs of curses,
you never spoke.
I refract through every lens,
I might appear to fight your demons,
then sit and praise them quietly,
or I might orchestrate their evilness,
just to watch your breathing fade.
I could be the waiter six feet under,
serving dinner to worms,
on a cold night.
I could be the hand behind the barrel,
aimed at your beloved face.
I might be the one beside you,
in your daily ride to work,
or the friend,
who loosens the weight in your chest.
I could be a stranger
surviving on the sidewalk.
I can be the air you breathe,
and still
you would never meet my eyes.
I could be you—
or a part of you
that sparks every doubt
and silences every certainty.
Through my words,
we could face each other,
for minutes,
like a passing coffee,
or for years,
aging quietly
inside your thoughts.
Or for an eternity
walking beside me
unraveling—
undoing your existence.
By Phan Tan Hai
At midnight I trace the ancient pages,
golden dust of centuries settling thick—
hearing echoes of brushes, swords, and ink
returning to rattle open a full-moon festival.
Summoning old spirits drifting in the wind,
the Master searches, translating page by page;
comparing characters, the long night shortens,
copying lines of poetry vast as the sea.
I hear the old zither strings break into tears,
soldiers urging horses, their cries ringing out.
The Master records the soul of ink and paper,
his beard and hair dyed white by a thousand clouds.
---- Respectfully dedicated to Professor Nguyen Van Sam
I chased a shadow up a sunlit hill,
it lengthened every time I thought it near.
By dusk, I learned pursuit obeys no will:
what flees the hand is never caught by fear.
The pens are capped, the ink is still,
A different world demands my will.
The rhythmic beat of a rhyming line
Must yield to codes and a strict design.
Between the pages of anatomy,
I'll miss the pull of poetry-
The way a stanza feels like home,
The freedom in a wandering poem.
But ICD-10 and billing guides
Are where my focus now resides.
Though Tampa's stage is far away,
The heart still marks this April day.
A quiet desk, a steady light,
Through every long and studious night,
I trade my metaphors for skill,
Climbing up this final hill.
So if my voice should drift away,
Know I'm counting down the days
Until the exam is passed and done,
And the battle for the cap is won.
The poems will wait, the ink will stay,
Until I've earned my April 26th.
Enchanted by your voice, I almost fell asleep,
in a field full of sunflowers, dreaming reality could mirror dreams.
I followed you so far, unconcerned by the fatigue,
walking through danger just to keep my place beside you.
Loved you so hard, when I saw you I missed a beat,
rational as I am, I was startled that I lost my breath.
I carried it to wake with you beside me,
wondering at night if an angel could be disguised.
Hearing you, I learned that dreams could also become scary.
Seeing you near taught me vigilance.
Loving you moved me across worlds — but I had traveled far enough.
Carrying it this long, I saw our colors — bold and subtle — filling the canvas.
Now.
My ears can listen from afar, but I cannot hear you.
My legs could cross layers of hell, but not to reach you.
My heart now beats fast as falling leaves, but not seeing you pass by.
I still carry it — but it no longer shines the same.
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