Yet Again: A Gogyohka Sequence

moonlight
creeps in the door ajar
her heart
has been closed since
azaleas blanketed the mountain

misty morning
I open The Art of Loving
her letter
falls out
Dear John...

that starlit night
full of her promises...
a column of smoke
burning returned letters
I open our album

raining outside
I sit at a window
drinking coffee --
the youthful self walks into
the summer of 1967

Atlas Poetica, #8.

Note: The concluding tanka is anthologized in Take Five: Best Contemporary Tanka Vol. 3 (2010).

Beats of Eros and Death: A Gogyohka Sequence

For Yosano Akiko and Martin Heidegger

mesmerized
by Akiko's Tangled Hair
I encounter
eros as infatuation
blooms into love

dumbfounded
with Heidegger's Being and Time
I view
death, shadowy confessor
as a kindred spirit

eros'
tangled hair's breadth
separates
me from poetry
the mind wanders on the page

I am
in a stew over death's
bad breath
my poems suck up all
of its decay ordor

roaming
the lanes of my mind
I can't find eros
back in the hut of my poem
I smell death

death sighs
there is no room for my misery
in this hut
you and eros have left no space!
I cry in silence

my mind
is empty while something dangles
between the legs
where is eros
my muse of poetry?

death lurks
about the room
taunting
how can I stop him
from reading my poems?

the moon spills
her light upon eros’ face
I see
the red shades of her longing
expressed in a poetic form

placing himself
beyond the pale of humanity
death casts
his frosty gaze at me
while I write poetry

eros sways
her body before my eye
I want to talk
men here watch or talk me
into something else... Poetry?

death sits
on my shoulders with feet crossed
pushing me
six feet under
I'm writing my jisei

eros winks at me
licking her lips
I can't wait
and lunge at her on paper
moaning poems in the making

death smiles
flashing big yellow teeth
and asks, how are you?
I ignore him
and keep writing poetry

moonrays
reveal our coupled body
eros and I
pulsate to the rhythms
of our gogyohka

Augustine claimed
there is a hole in the soul
I decide
to fill it with poetry
death gives me a cold look

into the depths
of the long dark night
eros and I
make love on the page
the birth of a poet

under
the burning gaze of death
I am nothing
for I’ve been living
through paper

moonstruck
eros snoops through my drawers
trying
to find poem-scented lingerie
worn by my "other women"

I can't believe
I still see you
death!
You've reached your expiration date
I dumped you one poem ago

at the end
of Are You Lonesome Tonight
I kneel
and propose to eros with poems
poor thing! she laughs

I stare
into somewhere for hours
death clears his throat
bringing me down to reality
I am just a silverfish

eros sighs
no use in figuring me out
everything
I say to you is poetry
I lament, what kind?

death answers
you can't hide from me
in poetry
for I am your reader
I cry, the only reader!

when kicking
at the embers of my life
I see
the sparks in eros' eyes…
my poetry title

Lynx, XXVI:1

Nostalgia vs. Chen-ou Liu: A Gogyohka Sequence

in memory of John Lennon (9 October 1940 – 8 December 1980)

nostalgia
whispers Yesterday
into my ear
seeing her moon face
I raise my hand...

there are a few
minor scuffles between me
and nostalgia
no arrest warrant
by the Thought Police

nostalgia
shows me her Colgate
smile
Let It Be
sung loud on the radio

Imagine...
the threads of a thousand poems
dangle
on the tip of a crescent moon
over my attic

Bed-ins for Peace:
nostalgia and I face to face
mouth on mouth
later legs tangled with legs
only then are we a single dream

anthologized in Many Windows (Magnapoets Anthology, #4)

Note: This poem sequence was written after I watched The U.S. vs John Lennon

Death of a Poet: A Gogyohka Sequence

he leaps away
from the gaze of silence
over the edge of a cliff
and into a place
that less fleshy

lonely, I
turn on the TV and see
a depressed poet
jump off a cliff
I start writing poetry

Death lurks
about the room
taunting
how can I stop him
from editing my poem

days slip by
minute by minute
hour after hour
a poem is born
time withers

measuring
the weight and length
of death
I count my poems
written and read

anthologized in The Journey and short-listed in 2010 National Poetry Contest held by Polar Expressions Publishing

A Four Act Passion Play: A Gogyohka Sequence

devotedly
I pray
yet He listens
absently
a four-decade old story

my heart
is a sponge
sopping up the tears
with which I wash
my prayers

I cleanse my heart
in prayers
before Him
whom my mind has doubted
seventy-seven times

no more waiting
for Him who is hidden
I hang
on the cross within me...
a faint echo, it’s finished

September/October 2010 issue of Sketchbook

Being-Toward-Death: A Gogyohka Sequence

for Martin Heidegger

like a child
shoved
down the playground slide
scared
I reach this age

forty six
a long strip
of white sand
washed by waves
no footprints left

separated
by a thin wall
I've never
greeted my neighbour
Death

Death
(whom I just befriended)
and I
chat about our dreams
through the vent in the wall

Death lurks
about the room
taunting
how can I stop her
from editing my poems?

Death and I
face to face
minds apart
staring in silence
who will blink first

July/August 2010 issue of Sketchbook

Time Is Nothing: A Gogyohka Sequence

for W. G. Sebald

I awake
eat, read, write, and sleep
the Mondays of present
follow the rhythm
of the Sundays of past

walled-in room
a clutter of books
a coffee-stained desk
stacks of returned mail
a mind unrested

the clock ticked
the sun rose and set
but in the shadows
Time does not pass
though the clock ticks

on any Monday or Sunday
I’m on the lam
crossing continents
sailing the Pacific
beyond Time’s grasp

drifting in a dream
turned into a bird
flying over the Pacific
I open my eyes
upon darkness again

pondering
who is this
thief drifting
in and out of windows
slain by the clock

July/August 2010 issue of Sketchbook

Red Dust Dreams: A Gogyohka Sequence

embracing
a dream
that dances to the rhythm
of my heart
I jump to catch the moon for you

not seeing
we pass each other by
in corridors
my dreams
see you

the only way
back to my lost youth
the whispers
in my dreams
love poems to you

waking alone
in the middle of a night
distressed
you evade my glances
even in dreams

moonless nights
and blank dreams
measure
the distance between us
two lives apart

I waste
my life away
remembering your
touch entering my dreams
one poem after another

I cry
like a 3-year-old
for lost dreams
my manhood thrown
into the rapids of days gone by

the piercing cry
of my neighbor's cat
laden
with pangs of loneliness
the same in my dreams

awake
I dream of a butterfly
or does it dream of me?
either way
we both live in Samsara

July/August 2010 issue of Sketchbook

Nine Ways of Looking at a Maple Tree: A Gogyohka Sequence

dewy morning
birds chirping
children playing
somewhere in maple leaves
sunlight breaks into pieces

intertwined
over the back alleys
maple leaves flash
in morning sun
autumn crimson

sitting
under the maple tree
I read the poetry
of leaves falling
into the book

maple tree
on the front yard
enjoys its solitude
I, too
sit by the window daily

maple tree
and I
gaze at each other
neither of us moves
or gets tired

withered
to a skeleton, the maple tree
stands firm
I see fragments of sky
between its bare limbs

maple tree
its bare arms
embrace Canadian winter
snowflakes on the face
of a Taiwanese immigrant

I have a mind
of winter to regard
the maple tree
on the lawn covered in snow
but no body of winter

bare maple branches
embrace the wintry sky
a Taiwanese
becomes the naturalized citizen
in a world of one color

July/August 2010 issue of Sketchbook

June Frogs and I: A Gogyohka Sequence

for Matsuo Basho

Basho's frog
jumps in an old pond
no sound heard
yet it ripples
in the minds of poets

where there is
neither pond nor frog
I sit still to hear
the sound of a frog
jumping into the pond

one frog
after another
jumps
into the pond of my mind
lub dub, lub dub, lub dub

the frog of my mind
jumps
into the pond of the zeitgeist
splashless
as it swims

sitting
under the basho tree
by an old pond
frogs and I
sing to one another

Note:"Basho's original name was Matsuo Kinsaku but he changed it to 'Basho' - after he was presented with a wide leafed banana tree (or basho tree) by one of his disciples. Although the tree is rare in Japan and the climate too cold for it to bear fruit, Basho liked it because of its large, soft leaves. The basho tree appeared frequently in his work:

Squalls shake the Basho

tree - all

night my basin echoes rain."

-- An excerpt from the webpage titled Basho of Poets' Graves

July/August 2010 issue of Sketchbook

An Immigrant in the Promised Land: A Gogyohka Sequence

for Mahmoud Darwish

I am from there. I am from here.

I am not there and I am not here.

I have two names, which meet and part,

and I have two languages.

I forget which of them I dream in.

Eric has become
the main character
while Chen-ou
has a supporting one:
life in the promised land

in my mind
there is a room
where Chen-ou
lashes out with the f-word
while Eric argues politely

inside my heart
there are no empty chambers
for Chen-ou
has piled his memories
despite Eric’s protests

in my soul
(I suppose there is one)
Chen-ou wages
a tug-of-war with Eric
for being himself

living
under the white gaze
Chen-ou
and Eric look like twins
same color, different dialects

Lynx, XXV:3

Being-In-the-World: A Gogyohka Sequence

for Martin Heidegger

I wish
I were you
forever frozen
in glory
a smiling graduation photo

looking
in the mirror
a few lines on my forehead
are there any wrinkles
on my soul?

I’ve turned gray
like Van Winkle

not under
a shady tree
but inside

is any day
of being
above the ground and vertical
a good one?
sleeps evade me

we all
go six feet under
why struggle?
short day
into dark night

Lynx, XXV:3

Either/Or: A Gogyohka Sequence

for Søren Kierkegaard

buried
under piles of books about Him
I rant and rave
He stands by
and keeps throwing His words

to believe
or not to believe
that is the question
I ponder
sunrays drift in and out of the window

the cracks in the ground
upon which I stand
become bigger year by year
doubting Thomas
in a land of promise

my heart
believes in His words
but my mind won’t
a tug-of-war
for my soul

my life with Him
like riding the merry-go-round
it goes round and round
up and down
but gets me nowhere

alone
in the dark
I hang Him
on the cross within me
it's finished?

May/June 2010 issue of Sketchbook