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Aberdeen Fishing Village
Home to fishery locals
amidst a sheltered harbor
of luxury skyscrapers,
junks, sampans and trawlers
lavishly designed
with red, gold and pink
papier mache' lanterns,
navigate the maze of currents
surrounding this simple habitat.
Locals make their homes
within this ancient port
playing mahjong - practicing Tai Chi.
The catch of the day
salted fish hung to dry
serve as feast for their families
and money in their pockets.
For unfruitful the fate
should they venture ashore
as tradition dictates.
There it stands
a gilded oasis
Jumbo Floating Restaurant
enticing starved tourists
hungry for Asian flair.
We digest the experience
aboard a wooden sampan
where our sea legs
savor the journey.
Repulse Bay
In motion
yet still
dawns an infinite canvas
of Western colonized
Chinese archetypes
where lavish mountain hideaways
rich in ginseng, bamboo
and crescent moon white sands
sing acappella
amidst a rapturous seascape
playing chopsticks
at high tide
while the South China Seas
sleeps.
Musing Seaside Canticles
It is about solitude
In the wake
Of anchored foghorns
Over a voiceless pitch
Of baritone riptides.
Strumming undertows
Syncopate rhythmic currents
Fusioned in a clef
Of aqueous harmonies.
A soulful soliloquy
Of seaside stanzas
Nature's Essence
Hushed by the wind
I hear seabird's cry
atop molten rocks,
"speak to me"
I implore
awaiting answers
to nature's essence.
My mind wanders
adrift beckoning
ocean currents
as the tide rises
memories rush
hugging
sands of time.
Strolling barefoot
meditative pulses
energize my limbs
and waves crest
while tears cleanse
shadows of once
earthly silhouettes.
A fragrant mist
begins to dampen
the warm sand
as my feet
are buried
within
secret storms.
A lonely ship
passes the horizon
as fleeting
as a grain of sand
resides
on the shore.
The call
of the ocean
speaks to me
where others fail.
I answer nature's call
with pen in hand.
New Year's Day In Kowloon
With an air of baked yams
and charcoal stir fried chestnuts
the bustling
side streets
come alive this new day
the rooster crows.
Temple Street
bargains its way through tourists.
Bamboo,
china dolls, fu dog
hawked with an eastern flair
good fortune and piety.
The lion dances
with a deafening roar
chasing
evil spirits
from Kowloon Park.
Families gather along Nathan Road
children adorned in their finest
red and gold kimono,
spun silk and satin laced.
They gather the feast
dim
sum, chow fan, peking duck
and wash away the old year with
Chinese tea, sake, tsingtao
Yin Yang.
Celebrating
the DeYoung Museum Rebirth
San Francisco
October 15, 2005
The Mantra
Let us give birth to your carvings
and redesign your gothic symmetry,
let
us resurface sacrificial grounds
with tender strokes and brushed etchings.
Silent as a tear
statuesque deities
blessed
by
monastic chants
and ancient rituals
pervade dark halls
the triumphant centurions.
Abstract meanderings
the
Poe de'artique
peacefully coexist
with aboriginal mediums.
Our ancestry we salute,
on the river Nile, through
ancient
Mayan ruins to the
glory that was Rome.
A celebration of culture
that is us, ours, we together
as one family -
our city
embracing the diversity.
Seagulls At Night
A twilight canvas
barren
of life
prelude to the masterpiece
hovers unseen
upon desolate skies
waiting to be fashioned.
Out of darkness
they
emerge
white winged choreographers
painting circles and
breeding life.
Seagulls At Night soar,
faithfully,
indiscriminately
a
free form phenomenon.
Red Lanterns
Oh, how they kiss the winds
With a cultural embrace.
A
harmonious balance
Alights the promenade,
Feng Shui.
An escape to tradition
A journey of peace
And silent affirmation.
The
cleansing of spirit and home,
Red Lanterns
Await the dawn
Of the Lunar New Year.
Gong Xi Fa Cai
Jazz Climax
For Sony
A Tribute To The Plush Room
The room hauntingly still
with mosaic tiles staring down
upon the audience.
Pink and
red lights glare
like the eye of a storm
pouncing across the stage.
Lights dim and the music begins.
Ebony and
ivory notes
meld with the pounding crescendo of drums.
Hot sax man plays it high and low
while the bass hovers
a
musical fog.
And the introduction!
Thunderous applause
echoes while the star
rises to the occasion.
To
the nines,
dressed Out Of This World
and the spotlight dull
in comparison to her beauty.
Her voice soft,
smooth
velvet whispers
shower the room
in vocal elegance.
Lyrical reverberations
echo beyond the stage
and the room
full
with sultry innocence
the sass and class monogamy.
Piano man sets the tone
tickling each key
to perfection.
At
Last!
As the song goes…
Sensual bluesy rhythms
fuel the senses
with hot anticipation
while the audience
swoons
in wild adulation
as rhythmic beats
rise and heighten
to a point of no return –
the jazz climax.
And
she takes her bow.
Encore!
The Aviary
Hong Kong Park
Birds
harmonize
Cantonese
tales
weaving
heirlooms
among
lotus flowers.
Nicobar
pigeon
rests
upon bamboo planks
while
orange leafbird
poses
for photos.
White
crested hornbill
the
virtuoso of dance
pirouettes
across
rippling
ponds.
And
the chorus
through
pond spice
and
tree cotton
echo
against bamboo clumps.
Tai
chi garden
sits
calm, serene
against
a backdrop
of
kapok and candlenut trees.
The
air warm, humid
the
sky grey, misty
as
I revel within nature
amongst
a bustling metropolis
of
tree fern and
the
feathered chorus line.
My
Love Sense
Love
speaks in silence
the unconditional
stanzaic
interlude
between heart and soul.
Never wanting
always waiting
to give freely
and openly .
Love
does not see color
nor stereotypical
ego branded persona.
As spirit seer
pure love
accepts all
with
understanding
and patience.
Love
hears beyond sound
soft whispers
of heartstrings
playing
in rhythm
the quiet song -
a deafening simplicity
defining uniqueness
to authentic self.
Love
tastes the sweet n sour
of
daily imperfections
savoring the bitter
with the sweet.
The perfect blend
providing nourishment
for the heart
digesting
the mix.
Love
smells indifference
and recoils at the
nauseous self righteous
stench
of the arrogant
yet embraces the
empowering odor
of forgiveness -
a scent of healing.
Love
touches softly
hearts who hear,
minds who see,
spirits who know
the freedom to give
inherent deep within
our
soul
without expectation -
unconditionally.
Writers Block
She awaits
the rise of the moon
when the call of the wild
imbues creative energies
waiting to be set free.
The notebook paper
stares
back at her
naked, a desolate wilderness
desperately longing
to be clothed
in artistic garb.
Her pen
a broken instrument
with which she holds on for life
yet falls dead within her fingers
and the paper sits
bare, alone
clinging to nothingness
devoid of essence.
With the slow demise
of her cerebral fashionista
the paper seems familiar
as it mirrors the blank corridors
of her mind.
Sanitized by it's emptiness
both
mind and paper
incommunicado.
And the silence is deafening.
A quiet oasis begging
for the wind to breathe
life
into this mindless desert,
yet the wind stifled
and her thoughts stand still
going nowhere.
Though
enticing as it seems
this recycled slab of wood pulp
lies undistinguished
a bare bones form
without meaning,
just as her mind
sits unknown
in skeletal remains
without image.
And she writes.
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