Tourists Haiku

tourists glance
at his beggar's bowl...
nothing but sunshine

Originally accepted for (now defunct) Lynx, 29:3, October 2014

Phoenix Tanka

under the sun
there is nothing new
in my dream
the phoenix wings her way
across the Sahara

Ribbons, 10:3, Fall 2014

White Man Tanka

an old white man
yells at me, go back
where you came from ...
I point my finger
to a snow moon

Ribbons, 10:3, Fall 2014

The Pain from an Old Wound

A Tanka Sequence

moonstruck
Nostalgia gains momentum
leapfrogging
from Taiwan to Toronto
I'm its colonial subject

my dog
seems to know the length
of its leash
I have no clue
how to measure Nostalgia

go back
to where you came from
Nostalgia screams ...
one kick after another
I see Bruce Lee in the mirror

NeverEnding Story, October 29, 2014

Note: Bruce Lee (27 November 1940 – 20 July 1973) was a Chinese American actor, and he is highly regarded by many commentators and fans as the most influential martial artist of modern times.

Starless Night Tanka

this starless night ...
I dwell in a time zone
of loneliness
without a before,
an after or a when

Skylark 2:2, winter 2014

NewBorn Haiku

the stare
of a newborn ...
starry night

Acorn, 33, October 2014

Ferguson, A Day to Remember

a haiku sequence for Frances Henry & Carol Tator, authors of The Colour of Democracy

sirens blazing ...
Black Lives Matter
scribbled in red

the silence between
a line of white police
and rows of black protesters

I have a dream ...
a zigzagging line
of blood

NeverEnding Story, November 25 2015

Immigration Haiku Set

[North] American literature has always been immigrant.
-- Salman Rushdie


the Kodak smile
of a new immigrant
first snowflakes

misty Canada Day
three immigrant children
build a sandcastle

NeverEnding Story, November 3, 2014

I dream therefore I am

a solo somonka for all would-be/depressed poets

their fingers grasp
toward me for a handshake
or a touch ...
the poster A Poet's View sways
in my midsummer dream

I have a dream
lingering in my mind:
men and women
stand in vigil at TV shops
watching my funeral

NeverEnding Story, October 23, 2014

Glass of Wine Haiku

summer moonlight
pours into my glass of wine ...
alone with stars

Revision Brass Bell, November 2014

Scent of Spring Haiku

over green tea
we share our childhood dreams
the scent of spring

Brass Bell, November 2014

I See, A Tanka Prose

Under the Dickinson bust an index card on which Remember, poetry ... is scribbled in red ink. Notebook in hand, back straight, mind alert, I start reading her last manuscript, Behind /Beyond the Attic Wall.

the year
dying in the night
I alone
lean out the window
into the dark

NeverEnding Story, October 18, 2014

Scattered Memories Tanka

all that remains
are the scattered memories
of what we were. . .
her unopened note
on my coffee stained desk

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

Crime-Scene Tape Tanka

on the muddy ground
he rocks to and fro with arms
wrapped around his knees . . .
the crime-scene tape
flapping in the winter wind

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

Summer Grass Tanka

my second
mowing of summer grass
it is hard
to get rid of a life
tainted with aftermath

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

Dog Tanka

my neighbor’s dog
hit by a red sports car . . .
after our walk
she tells me, I see
his shape in the clouds

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

Darkness Tanka

in darkness
our bodies a pillow away
in daylight
our dreams a world apart . . .
my gray hair and her lined face

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

God Particle Tanka

on CNN
the God Particle news
breaking out
in the closet, I find
dog-eared God of the Gaps

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

Language Tanka

in English
I try to delineate
the contours
of my Chinese longing . . .
this misty winter morning

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

Incensed Darkness Tanka

sitting alone
in the incensed darkness
I ponder
the gap between me
and my deceased friend

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

Migrant Workers Tanka

How y’all doin?
he greets from the counter
with a smile
one of the migrant workers
points to the harvest moon

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

Google Earth Tanka

alone, starless
on this midsummer night
I use Google Earth
to zero in on my school
once full of laughter

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

Emigration Tanka

I am alone
in the midnight
of emigration
the clock’s hands
meeting in prayer

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

Stars Tanka

sleepless
I gaze at the sky . . .
everything blacks out
except stars
and my memory of stars

Bright Stars, VI, 2014

A Company Town, A Haibun

Lord's Prayer
through cracks in a window
winter moonlight

A middle-aged man stands looking at the crucifix, seeing the face of Jesus in agony. He leaves the church without saying a word. The night deepens as one stray dog answers another.

Chrysanthemum, 16, October 2014

Monarch Haiku

a monarch
folds into silence...
budding petals

Second Place, 2014 World Haiku Competition

Police Sirens Haiku

walking alone...
the sound of police sirens
darkens the night

NeverEnding Story, October 17, 2014

Dewdrops Tanka

as if
nothing had happened ...
dewdrops fall
by ones and twos
on this spring morning

Chrysanthemum, 16, October 2014

False Dawn Haiku

a cricket's chirp
carries me home...
false dawn

Chinese Translation

蟋蟀唧唧聲
伴我回家......
破曉之前

Ardea, 4, 2014

I write, therefore I am, A Tanka Prose

I try out
the word writer
in my Chinese mouth
several times ...
this bittersweet taste

I write poetry in the music of a language not natural to me. I am frustrated by my slow progress, but sometimes feel good about this hard fact: writing is the only thing I can do with my immigrant life here and manipulate it in the way I desire. When I stay drunk on writing, reality cannot destroy me.

at the gun-mouth
of time’s barrel
I write --
I live for myself
by myself

Whispers,  October 11, 2014

My Dream Is a Private Myth, A Haibun

The sound of gunshots wakens me on this May Day, my twelfth since emigrating to Canada. I look out the window and see a yellow bird falling from the sky. It flaps then glides, flaps then glides as it descends. Is this a sign that the rest of my life will be spent immobile in this promised land for a chosen people? Suddenly, a twinge in my heart.

to stay or not to stay ...

maple leaves shimmering

in the breeze

Haiku Canada Review, 8:2, October 2014

Bathroom Mirror Haiku

I kiss myself
in the bathroom mirror
New Year morning

Haiku Canada Review, 8:2, October 2014

First Nations Haiku

yesterday's newspaper
dancing with the wind
First Nations elder

Haiku Canada Review, 8:2, October 2014

A Woman Who Enjoys Reading Orlando, A Haibun

first kiss --

behind the bookshelf

her scent lingers

Her parting words scribbled in pencil on the back of a transfer ticket:

Elizabeth and I finally enter the caves -- warm, damp, and fold upon fold -- that are bigger than your mind can hold. With my mouth, I swallow her and myself ...

Alone on the road to our favorite beach. It twists along the edge of the ragged coastline.

waves lapping  ...

that night her fingers

caressed me

Modern Haiku, 45:3, Autumn 2014
World Haibun Anthology

Fire Trucks Haiku

a line of fire trucks
comes and goes ...
what's left of moonlight

Modern Haiku, 45:3, Autumn 2014

Summer Heat Haiku

smell of summer heat . . .
pig blood splattered
at Quebec mosque

Shot Glass, 14, 2014

Silence Haiku

long way home
breathing the silence
between us

Shot Glass, 14, 2014

My Little Death, A Haibun

the year

dying in the night ...

his blind eyes

"From the movies I'd seen, the scene I remember most vividly," my cinephile friend says," is the one about making love. The man abandons his position, in which he is behind the prostitute, for the face-to-face position."

"So what is it about this scene?" I ask.

"Now, my wife is faceless to me. And this morning, when I woke up early to the sound of crashing waves and birdsong, I suddenly realized that I couldn't remember what I looked like."

the new year begins

with the same rising sun...

me in the mirror

Cattails, 3, 2014

A Poet and His Reader(s), A Haibun

Attic Diary

with a pen tucked in the spine

the touch of moonlight

Sitting at his coffee-stained desk, I turn to the page where he left behind:

The know-it-all editor detailed places in red ink where she found the haibun loaded with hazy semantics, or where they suffered from what she called etymological fog. And she emphasized that the Craft of sketching lived experiences is Flaubertian W...

Work? But what will be left of a poet's life in the end? Published poems. An unfinished manuscript. Jotted thoughts shifting and transient as skin cells.

words, always words ...

his right hand grasping

in the cold air

Cattails, 3, 2014
World Haibun Anthology