Auckland Poetry.com

1.
My mother cooked with salt,
flavoring our lives
with the spice of her choice…
a white grain from the sea
that added new world of taste
to children made of mixed spices.

2.
My father loved his pepper
heating up her pot
with its red flames,
that little masculine bulb
men use to show brav-
ado about nothing.

3.
We ate of Mother’s salt
all of our lives till we grew
old enough to insist
she travel to the sea
of her spice, a-
way from the red heat
of our father’s pepper.

4.
Today, fifteen years on,
my mother has stopped
cooking with that spice
as white as my father’s skin.
And we have grown accus-
tomed to his hot spice,
hardly remembering
her love for little white grains
drawn from the sea.

Tanka (wikileaks)

We strongly believe
In the freedom of the press
As long as it
Doesn’t print truths about us
And endanger our democracy.

A moment to Remember

This night is too beautiful to behold, moon and silence. My heart aches.
Know I will wake up at dawn and regret that I can’t take it with me.
It will all be erased one day and I shall not know that I ever lived. I have
nothing, cannot own anything but my own ageing body, all I can do is to
enjoy the rare moments of fulfillments. I hear a plane high up see its light,
full of passengers going home and back to work. Why would anyone want
to leave this place? Across the road, in a darkened house, a man lies dying
racked by pain he can’t even shave himself. He sees not the full moon.
My life consists of moments, not like takes at a film studio that can be done
over and over again till it’s right. Some moments are too sad to behold.
Do not think of this now, I will drink another cold beer, smoke a cigarette,
look at the stars and dream.

Yellow river
emanates
in China.

Will your
river flow?
Will kids
row the boat
in that river?

Cities roar
in China.
Will your voice
ascend above them?

Will flowers
soar with wings
in that voice?

Yesterday,
I saw a dream.
Dungeons

are bursting
as bubbles.
Is the dream,
a dream alone?

OR

A rainbow path
to reality?

He sat blinded beside the crystalline river
Head numbing a stained reverie
Anesthetized and paralyzed
Starry carnivals hypnotized his pockets of memories and dreams
Drunk with languor he felt it impenetrable
Until he saw the red sparkle of confetti under the moons shadow.

He howled in delight
And the wolves howled back in return
She told him her name, “Marylou French” a conviction of fame.

They rode two of her horses through the forests of white dark orchids
And ravaged the moon a cocktail of purple haze
Her eyes sparked beauty, it opened the window to her soul
Joyfully numbing his familiarity of home.

Winter Night

I sit in darkness
The wood in the hearth burns
Flame’s core is blue
And look cold as diamonds
Intense the aroma of rage.

Glowing ember
When night yields to dawn… ash
Quiet as a shadow
Blows like snow in winter breeze
In the forest ravens crow.