Wednesday, February 8, 2017

The Life of the Fisherman

Perhaps, it was because the reed
near the river bank
found the footprints
of the fisherman
seagulls made decision
to fly away
from many noisy and
madding crowds

Someone recalled the life under water
is like fish’s murmurs -
vague and mysterious, yet

Perhaps, it was because of
the overwhelming melancholy, tired legs
walked down to river
for a temporary

Many years later
someone else recalled daily life of the fisherman -
he packed up his net,
walked along river, and conversed
with rocks
The reed overheard the conversation
but it was obscure
like sand grains, mixed with bubbles of
tide waves

Maybe , it was because the fishing net blocked the view
the reed could never have a clear look of the sky -
Maybe, it was because there was no wind
The reed, who stayed behind rocks
could not see
what really happened
to the fisherman
and his life

*Translated /re-wrote from my early Chinese poem.

Sunday, March 20, 2016


Inside darkness
my sentiment
like a living
organism -
broke womb, 
traversed my troubled
puberty, endured sorrow of
middle age,
arrived on 
the land of
innocence - where 
my consciousness sleeps
the Moon

Sunday, March 13, 2016

Wednesday, September 2, 2015

Memory of Prairie

I had such a silent view:
Under the still gray air
I lay on the ground, waiting for storm -
but the storm never came, only I saw
a Tibetan man with long sleeves*
riding horse across highland

Clouds were hanging low,
dense and white, like snow
I rode horse to chase them,
though they kept the distance,
like the never ending horizon

Reflected in water were clouds
River ran but the clouds remained
Once again I lay on the ground waiting for storm, yet
the storm never came, only I saw
the dark skinned Tibetan
waved his sleeves
my head

*Long sleeves, Tibetan style of clothing. 
(translated/rewrote from my early Chinese poem )

Gray Horse

So it was in your dream
I encountered that gray horse
and his gray mane ---
there’s no sunlight that day
only silence, stretched behind the horse
and his waving mane

No one told me the color of grass
but my impulse produced deep green
Rainy season had just gone
the horse trotted over wet grass with forlorn song

But the grass didn’t weep
trees leaned on the pale sky
creeks stopped running, began to ponder
the sternness of the wild

There I saw the gray horse
in the windless air waved was his gray mane
then I heard silence
that was the sound of rain

(translated, partially re-wrote from my early Chinese poem, original title: Beyond Still Image)

image sourse:


Tonight, I haven't painted yet
I've been singing, writing
and dreaming.

Moonlight is my confidant
she just visited my chaste white poetry sheets
and dwelt there --
she belongs to poetry
belongs to my songs
and my wide awakening dream

Tonight is also for thoughts
my disordered reason suddenly starts thinking
something beautiful
and it was moonlight
who is telling me
what “beauty” means

Tonight, I have not painted yet,
tonight, I sleep in my poems - who
shower under
the silver moonlight - where
I dream
the Moon

(translated, partially re-wrote from my early Chinese poem)





Wednesday, July 22, 2015

Path Of Love

Book of love
was opened by a gentle hand
page by page;
story of love
was told by a tender voice
word by word ---
Text drifted
voice whispered
chapters intertwined
story lines undulated
and when music quietly danced through,
they all scattered
like autumn leaves
along the PATH OF LOVE
woven by
and thorns

This poem was inspired by this piano work It's About The Rose In The Vase On The Table by Karen Marie Garret

Friday, March 6, 2015

The Bridge That Crosses Over Time

The bridge that crosses over time
stands on a solid
two dimensional ground
by its sundry earthy desires ---
time flies
river runs
bridge remains, and

Painting by Marc Gosselin


God said: Let there be light ---
but the Sun hesitated
it shone on somewhere all the way through,
created scenery with depth; but in somewhere else
it went only half way, illuminated
partial space, thus the bird-like
creatures - the kind that are sensitive to light,
were forever confused
about whether to fly up high
or to remain on a flat, yet
not so solid

Thursday, March 5, 2015


A spontaneously painted village 
is a conscious touch
over an absentminded
valley ---
wisps of smoke wind along
pond reflects, like a wide open eye
oh, landscape is just awakened
so am