7 Haikus



Uncover the blue
Whose eyes glitter in the dark.
Good friends always do.



Do the oceans can’t
Locate with their stubborn waves
Your ship and I can?


Fallen Leaves

Travel with nothing
But the gift of gravity
To kiss your love-mound.



Towards the sunset
And pray clock be stopped till dawn
To see how death lives.



Howl louder, my queen;
Send me to raging quiet,
Wind, sexy temptress.



Whiter than the white,
Flies down on the greens and brown,
Melts in colored hands.


Two Birds

They play, dance, and kiss;
They go twit-twitterpated.
I see yours and mine.



The Letter


It lays bare layers upon layers of skeletons, the letter.
True, cursive is better, with those tails and hooks and slant
The message so much clearer, like graceful dancers
Doing somersaults with the wind. The words sparkle,
Blinding my truth and quenching my thirst.
It’s sex in the woods under the full moon,
The songbirds’ playfulness rendering the quiet
Louder and louder every minute.
That’s what it is reading your letter, your secrets.
So gorgeous, every word hurts and lingers.


Why I Write Poetry


It’s an experiment how I choose and assemble words for effect;
An accident how through those words rhymes and images are created;
A miracle they sound as if beneath them were a beautiful message;
Delusion I see melody and posterity in my lyrics,
And I hear my muses singing, as they gyrate, head-bang like Shakespeare’s.
It’s a lie I don’t labor through the night chasing down that sense I still miss.
But why do I write poetry still, even if I have no talent in it?
I’m flummoxed myself just like everyone who has the sanity to think.
Please pardon my answer, as it may offend, ‘cause all I really know is:
If I don’t, either I’ll die, or I’ll kill. Yes, there’s no other way to live!




Oh, the greatest play is on;
The audience has filled the hall.
After the whole cast have sung their all,
All Epicurus’s hairs stand in awe.
Then comes the main actor’s solo,
The backdrop the whispers billow:
That main actor can hit the high notes,
But so badly he mangles the lows.
Then he sees one by one the seats go,
And, yes, so do the highbrow’s shadows.
But he still sings the part with his heart,
Knowing fully well it is his last.
Though there’s but one audience left,
(She is his best friend since birth)
The actor sings with candor,
His efforts taking their toll
On his voice and throat and soul,
His friend’s eyes glued on the show.
Right after the actor’s singing has stopped,
His best friend, teary-eyed, quickly stands up,
Does her applause, and proudly bows,
Shouting “Encore! Encore! Encore!”
But the actor can’t give no more;
Pleased, he falls lifeless on the floor.




I pace up and down, and the room moves with me. The
Peeling pink shatters with undifferentiated
Nervousness. The granite floor, with mouth wide open,
Pukes at the thought. The door retches uncontrollably
As the drapes billow, the fetid smell bringing in
Images of grime and murk. Then the ceiling lets go
Of the rivets, says goodbye to the furring, and
The roof with its rafters plummets. Any minute
From now the entire walls will come down, I’m sure of it,
Its foundation proving no match to our sturdy promise,
Our stubborn destiny, our scrumptious eternity—
Now all flying out of those scarred windows as fast as
My hopes and unreasonableness turning into
Debris. With a champion’s resolve, I quit. I surrender.




I can’t see your face when we talk,
Your eyebrows going up and down,
Your lips the shape of a Chinese roof
And more often like an eagle’s wings.
Your forehead drowns me every time
As does a scary deep ocean
On which waves of lines smirk and smile,
Enough to say what’s on your mind.
Your eyes, those gateaux for my soul,
Limpid with so much flirts and whores,
To my heart’s beat open and close,
In my dreams are a wise man’s lore.
Why I feel your skin and taste your moan,
While we’re making love on the phone,
While we’re distanced by shores, I don’t know.
God knows each day I love you more.




I don’t hide the truth because I just can’t.
I can only cover it like the sun
Laughing, dancing, effulgent, wild, and mad
Behind that palette kaleidoscopic,
Soft, pristine, virginal, silent, and still.
I can’t define truth because I must not.
A measured, standardized truth is a lie,
That one bird whose wings are cut, that can’t fly;
That one song whose lyric is pretty yet empty,
And whose only strength forgettable melody.
I must not define truth because there is not one:
There are truths, half-truths, some breathe out black smoke, some white;
Positive, negative; chilly days, summer nights.
A painting more truthful, whose lines both blurred and defined,
That truth, like a chiaroscuro of light, is divine.