The Frail Light of Life

A flush of blood on his thin, porcelain skin;
he looks about...
and his lips pucker 'round
a sucking stone. A hard candy.
Lemon, apple perhaps.
He doesn't know he's handsome,
and he may not be, of course.
He's just so damn easy in his skin.

A youthful air shimmers
about his head and shoulders.
He chats-up a friend as
they wait for the tube.
His hands whip about in a flurry
suddenly
as he comes to something funny.
And then he changes the subject
suddenly.

All serious, now.

The bell chimes
the train's imminent arrival.
He gathers himself about.
His frail light dims
as he steels himself.
Stepping through the door,
he is a different man.
The depth of his gaze fixes
on his reflection in the glass.
His youthful air, now precipitate
in the memory
of his shadow on the platform.
Trampled, there, under the rush.

A bell chimes
the train's imminent departure.
The train pulls-away.
He's gray through the shade
of the window.
And then gone.

Poem: Grandpa's Garden

Grandpa's Garden

In his garden
clean and neat,
my grandfather
his vigil keeps.

The faeries in
the rhubarb patch
know his gait,
and await the latch
to unlatch the gate —
for it's grandpa they await.
His smile,
his laugh,
his love-torn hands
work the soil —
soothe the land.

So when grandma
beckons him
to leave the work
and come on in,
it's with a tear
they see him go
and close the gate.

But don't you know?
Grandma thinks
them happenstance
the things that
beckon grandpa back
down his cobbled
garden path…
like unleashed vines,
misplaced rakes,
garden boulders,
fallen grapes.

For the faeries in
the rhubarb patch
know his gait
and await the latch
to unlatch the gate —
for it's grandpa
they await

Harvest time
comes and goes —
the faeries move south
with the snows.
South, right into
grandpa's home
to take-up
residence downstairs
or behind the
'clining chair…
quietly anticipating
grandpa's timely
dinner nap
when they can curl-up
on his lap —
or better yet
near his heart —
so big and soft
( until he starts
to heave and snore ).

But they don't mind:
they love grandpa
( and so do I ).

____________________

I wrote this for Grandpa, on his 80th birthday ( Halloween, 1991 )... and meant to post it on Halloween, on his 95th birthday a few weeks ago. But I completely spaced it. Good thing he doesn't know what the internet is.

:)

Poem: Strangers

Strangers.

When upon life's tangled roads,
a stranger you do meet —
in torn and tattered traveling clothes
or finer, gentler, 'ttire —
conspire not, within yourself
to bypass the passerby.

For whether they of kindred be
or of some other's sire,
tis not for you, their judgment mete.
But approach them and salute!
In friendship give a willing hand;
their burden you should loose.

And when, anon, the road divides,
do not part in haste.
But walk with them til eventide.
And walk with them again.
Then turn, embrace, and kiss:
this stranger you made a friend.

For ere you walked alone
in dire circumstance
for whither a man without a home?
Where is his happiness?
But when, with a friend, his road he takes,
there will he find his bliss.

So when upon life's harrowed path
a stranger's path you cross,
remember what a friendship hath
and more the merry be:
but do not forget in passing by
that kindness begins with thee.

____________________


This was a poem I wrote during my mission for a talk I was asked to give. It's a little contrived, but I like its cadence and its message.

Poem: Flower

A bloody flower
in an alley dark.
Absently people walk by.
The flower is but a woman.

____________________


This was the first poem I ever wrote. I was in 5th grade, and it was a gift for my teacher ( it was pre-Colombine, so no one thought to lock me up ). My sister had just been murdered, and I coped through writing and drawing... I'll have to rummage around to find some of my others.

That teacher was great... she just posted them on the coat closet behind her desk, and told me how good it was. No mention of the macabre flower drawing... just pure, unadulterated, teacherly love.

( Thank you. )

Poem: Three Sisters

Kari

Temperate hardly means boring.
No.
Never boring.
Dancing arm-in-arm with the sun.
She gets around.

Taiga. Tundra. Lakes upon lakes.
Yeah, she gets around —
a cosmopolitaine —
New York, Tokyo, Paris, Moab.

She gets the joke.
Temperate.
No.
Never boring.


Hadley

Damn Sahel. Wretched manchild.
Vindictive logger-spawn.
The ghosts of your trees lay
legion under the sands
like so many obscene gestures.

She does not come to visit you,
nasty child.
She spurns your haunts,
she blows you off.

Damn Sahel... you and your cousins.
(Stop Stop Stop)
She moves on, to greener pastures:
archipelagos and sargosian seas.


Austra

She lays-hold of her security
— that great, bearless expanse
stretching, as it does,
from Cape to Cape to Cape —
as she walks her way around.

She is confident on the waters,
crossing with ease.
But not always crossing,
she tarries.

She visits the islands of the seas
bare-foot and sodden.
She likes the coasts
and is not wont to cross a continent.

____________________


This poem about various winds and storm tracks was started a couple years back, then finished yesterday. It's been so long since I've written poetry, that I've missed it.

Hopefully it was worth the wait. It certainly was for me.

罂粟的夢。

When I was attending BYU, I took 3½ years of Mandarin ( three years of language and a semester of calligraphy ).

I loved it.

Loved loved loved.

During my first year, I did something quite daring: I signed-up for the year-end speech contest... and instead of reading a passage or something other from some well-known author, I decided to write my own.

I've always loved poetry, and I've written a great deal of it in my life ( though most of it during my youth ), and the idea of writing a poem and *performing* it was more than I could resist.

I prayed over it, and thought over it... wrote and re-wrote it... And then finally performed it.

Prior to the performance, one of the judges pulled me aside and told me how much he loved the poem, and that he would like to have it published back in China ( presumably in some collection of English-speaker-authored poetry ). He then gave me a suggestion on the last line which I smiled at ( then dismissed... I liked it as-is... I'm stubborn that way ).

After the contest, I put the poem aside. My life had become VERY BUSY, and I forgot about the poem for a while. When I went to look for it, I couldn't find it. Every year or so, I'd think about the poem and dig through all of my old paperwork — to no avail.

Fast forward 12 years... I'm returning from church the week before last, and I walk into my store room. I just stand there and look at all the boxes of books waiting for my shelves to be built ( I do this a lot... not having my books out on shelves is really hard on me ). And I think to myself, spying a box filled with old Franklin planners, "I wish I knew whatever happened to that poem". I go to the box, pull out a binder with 1994's archives, and let it fall open.

And there she is.

My poem.

God heard my prayer, and gave me a gift... Even now, my eyes well-up with tears to think of God's tender mercies.

It's such a small thing, really... to Him. But it was a perfect gift for me. I can't really ever repay Him... but I think all He really wants is my honest gratitude. And what better way to thank Him, than to share His twice-over gift with others. So it is with joy that I finally present my little poem about fireflies and August skies...

罂粟的夢

在罂粟中間、
我静静地躺。
看夜募降臨
停! 聽星星唱。
看螢火虫慢慢地飞
分享星星的舞劇。

I hope you like it.

In passing, though, I should mention that after 12 years, my Mandarin has faltered a bit, and I had to turn to my dear friend Cam, whose Mandarin is impeccable. He helped me publish it here by providing the pinyin. Thanks Cam! You're a super-star!