Page Text: Lotus plants are dying in a green lake: Leaves
curling into giant cups, their crinkled edges
laughter lines around the eyes of old men.
Trees like emperors kept erect by iron stairs.
Branches bind across paths, providing ease
for squirrels. Grandfathers with jet black hair
bribe future leaders with ice cream. Leaves spiral
into watery embrace. Carp flash gold, soft song
of life. Bamboo and herons glow in the paintings
of Master Zhang Daqian: His lotus are full of life,
his lakes clear, his trees and mountains strong.
Such knowledge and skill take time to acquire.
Writing with water
My son seeks treasures on my desk.
He cups a cowrie to his ear. Its back,
mottled like his mother’s tan, sings
of other summers. A souvenir of joy:
Warm coconut oil. Tang of salt on lips
kissed after sea swimming. The shell’s
curves tell stories of a season when
life was free, like love or sea breezes.
Parent versus child
Strange word from a child aged three:
She “murders” flowers. It’s her term
for confetti petals. Colours take flight,
then gentle gaily to the ground.
Please don’t hurt the flowers, I suggest.
Our battle continues none-the-less.
I ask again. This time it’s more command.
A pause. More petals flutter to the ground.
No more! Parental authority
battling a child’s creativity?
She waits, wondering if I’ll regret
the threat. More petals meet their fate.
Slap stings on buttock. Shocked, she
flees to her mother inside. It’s then
I notice her artwork: Wondrous colours
in the dirt. Monet modified.
Inside, that look as she glowers!
I regret a parental need for power.
Butterfly music
Near Po Lin monastery I walked alone.
Mist and cloud covered the Wisdom Path.
It came quickly, like a greedy lover.
My jaw forced wide, a soft breath inside.
Absolute silence.
like a radio resuming after a power cut:
Birdsong and hum of cicadas,
the smell of damp earth,
and the skinfeel of a cool breeze.
I have heard the music of butterflies.
Magic meal
My daughter offers an empty bowl:
It’s really magic soup. Eyes bright
with life she feeds my soul. I sip
the soup with happy heart then
see birthday candles on the floor.
A wad of warm wax pressed
into my hand. I prefer sweets.
She smiles, gaps in her baby teeth.
From soup we move to mains:
A casserole of worms and snails.
Dessert is daisies mixed with mud.
Yellow eyes winking from the dirt.
After food, it’s time for tunes. Pots
make perfect drums when banged
with wooden spoons. Music creates
another kind of bond. Our black
labrador Harry mountains over us,
tail thumping in tune with the drums.
My daughter leaps up to dance
and I get a sense of the ineffable.
Uneasy equilibrium
It was easy being asleep.
A chrysalis-curled soul
Now the kiss of hope
awakens the deepest