day after day.
the ghostly past
lurking around the corner
of my mind ...
with a scalpel of words
I stab into its heart
However, my immigrant past is never ...dead -- gone and forgotten. It is not even past.
Distressed and alone by the bedroom window, in the wake of a dream about a Taiwan blue magpie disappearing into the dark forest, I hear Time passing in the sound of snow.
Ribbons, 19:1, Winter 2023
(annual anthology showcasing a state-of-the-art selection of haibun, tanka prose, and haiga from journals around the world)
FYI: The following remarks are emailed to me by Tanka Prose Editor, Liz Lanigan:
A short and powerful piece of self reflection where the poet seems to be preparing themselves for an intense look-back at family history.
Love the final sentence… “I hear time passing in the sound of snow” -- Carole Harrison.
I think you published a little masterpiece: Chen-ou Liu’s “It is always three o’clock in the morning”. It is the piece I am copying into my journal. I don’t feel like analysis, but it’s haunting and meaningful and I love the format which is innovative I think. -- Gerry Jabobson