Not the Fall
My cellphone says
It’s 106 degrees today
Feels like 108
So 60 year old me
Took the portable air conditioner
Out of my daughter’s bedroom
She’s living with her mother now anyway
And I am luxuriating in a 75 degree blast
As I sit at my particle board desk
With the usual circulating fan to my left
And Zoom poetry into poets
That they may be inspired
To forget about the weather
For a few wavering lines
And breathe out their souls
dopamine
frivolous falling in love
the thought of you numbs
every follicle;
earth
stops rotating.
axis
accreted
end
obliterated.
paradoxical pages
chime their praise
forcing
smiles on our faces.
we close doors
follow wonder where
paired hearts fall
victim
to brain
chemistry.
the mastermind.
puppeteer in pursuit of
chaos.
entropy
in
our
favor
all fated feelings
give their blessing.
the glue will hold
holy wine
to heart
and you
to me.
At Dark Water Dawn
I.
The Real loathes golden creed
logic of a roaring lion;
laborers never hold a candle
other than Diligence,
which orbits danger’s past
as though Choice
wasn’t just a name, called Fate,
but littered litanies of splatter paint;
sincere storms with divine derision,
seldom shot a lucky arrow
with absurd brilliance
quivering into the stratosphere!
O how you drown when
day devours freedom—
deranged, unaware
that loving you close
isn’t nefarious air to flocks of fettered geese
or sea to school of piranha.
O, how the harbor shines
down the page of Isa deluded.
I ask my lawyer why
these questions denuded clothed stars,
caked by a thousand ills,
with shepherd naysayer soothing
contemptuous man
wither recollection we row pollution.
I am closer to you than you could ever be.
Although inside the sea,
you don’t need imagination
to leap from your honored cliffs of contentment
callous countries and continents of hope-
conjured growth past the precipice of change you farm
down the slaveway.
II.
I am peace,
picturesque asylum deep in atomic melancholy Fade.
Fade grassy-white plane of existence.
Fade Kierkegaard goldsmiths,
handsome familiar soldiers
who kill their injury with proverbs.
Fade with the fairest flower whose melody is monster,
bleeding eternity unscathed with viceroy visage.
Fade as you mirror Solar Sinai.
Gems stir homeliness with loneliness,
pure alcohol, alchemy.
I hunger for silence and war in the air.
My heart’s contentment is Earth,
a blind jewel misfortune,
summer spirit songs of grief.
Grieving far beyond nebulas most common
with all the citric-acid nimbus clouds.
Grieving tera-birth glow over rich, bankrupt dreams
without question.
Solemn, I return to solstice solipsism.
But I can neither sweep nor shrug under the rug
wildfire pain looming luminous dust piles distant.
I peer through my own windowpane and witness
a sandstorm of vultures, consumers, self-proclaimed gods,
who count shadows with gangrene ideas
and soldier your throat of beautiful devas,
primordial heavengravel, unheroic servitude.
I can neither stray nor stay inside leprous reason,
and let million-fueled minds of grey-chimneyed
churlsgrace charge
on tilled soil fresh
until each soul remains forever indoors.
III.
After the fall,
I lay naked
in cosmic quicksand ocean of star—
after star after star-
light precludes light.
Darkness forever eludes me.
Heaven’s most desired cloud
is an evergreen innocent bliss,
an entire universe of
greedy coma-seekers,
moist, beloved without question.
Your sigh is my long psalm
call Aum, emit ray of light –
fall o low I buy me away Waive rights
Wipe sweet sweat from brow, I bow my body home
to sticky chains, rusty memory
Commit lightning grief, strike match against gravity
saintly grime, stone vultures again and
gain freedom as you leap
from precipice
into heavy sepulcher
Aum
I sacrifice my silence.
Nervous penicillin breeze
leaves me restless, paralyzed
by counterfeit ambrosial alacrity.
O Poverty! skip outlandish pebbles
across jacaranda sky of your pernicious
desire
O Poverty! return warmth to earthworms embered asleep
in cozy cottage, seek rosy dreamland noise
gasping for your name—
O Poverty! grasp God-gilded driftwood
at the apex of compassion
O Poverty! God mourns the echoes of ethereal angels
avalanched across delirious sky wailing
your name.
IV.
Naïveté, a beatific smile, calcium caelum mortis engrave
image grace, synchronicity fatwa, the paradisiacal isle
of pearly people’s Jannah, will-o’-wisp hosannavino!
O Poverty! how your celestial oak saps tomorrow
with your chalice malice
brimming over with your disheveled strands
carpeting the Earth,
the people most contemptible and contented
the ones I love, the ones I hate,
the souls I must make equal
as the Great Equalizer lets go
of the cryptic crown,
this refuse and rabble,
moonlight fastened to my chest,
the saddest street
rumbles deep within
my own windowpane of existence.
O celestial oak, how exhausted
this wandering wave
up the turn pike moans with crash and thrash,
descent after descent,
tirelessly trying to save the sea
in a chalice made of hands,
trying not to lose sleep
over seeds growing in this prairie swamp
at dark-water dawn.
When Ash Falls
In the quiet prayer room
She lights up a long incense stick
Piously places it to the ceramic burner
On the altar table
Then starts to pray
Her daily ritual in memory of him
The incense smoke slowly ascends
Swings and sways
Higher and thinner
Seemly his shadow in mist
Mysterious and wandering
The nostalgic fragrance of
The sandalwood stick is
Permeating and calming
Under the spell
She dozes off with a hand
Still holding the chanting book
Time is transiently tugged away
The world is gently budged aside
In the dream
She rejoices over the reunion with him
Only the glowing ember is
Still in line with time
Slowly it descends down the stick
Atop ash grows taller
Resisted to leave, it remains erect
Suddenly, its fluffiness yields to gravity
When ash falls
It makes no sound
As he turns to dust
Deceiving Fall
If fall is your favorite season
And the last one was
Unfortunately, your last
It is not so bad
You won’t miss this fall
Since it is a deceiving one
Autumn is here to show off its colors
But the golden red
Turns into sanguineous scarlet
The bright yellow now
Looks more like ailing jaundice
And the withering brown heralds
Falling of leaves along with
Many lives in tow
The fall wind thwarts summer heat
But it also provokes a fearful chill
For the bleak winter foreseeable
When autumn gust swirls up leaves to the air
They will be mixed with viruses,
Political lies, chicanery and
Hundreds of thousands of
Unduly defunct spirits
Rest in peace, you won’t miss this fall
Fall in Love
Love the myriad versatility of poems
Innumerous as the sands of the Ganges
Long or short, they all have their branded poises
Adventurous demure flamboyant unassuming
Hilarious serene mysterious enigmatic
They are all precious
Admire the authors of poems
They joggle words like magicians tossing stars
They sing intuitively of feelings
Dance impromptu of emotions
Spirits free as birds
With genie’s power they layout rainbows
Bridging heart and heaven
Awed by the undertones between lines
Amazed at the silent songs embedded in ballads
Elated by déjà vu and serendipity encountered in verses
They are panacea
They are immortal
Fall in love with those poems
Praise the poets
Bio
Shih-Fang Wang: After retirement from medical profession in 2016 I shifted gears and entered into the fascinating art world. I enjoy writing and watercolor painting. In Dr. Mira N. Mataric’s creative writing class I started to write poems. Through expressing emotions, depicting humanity, exploring life and nature with poems I am able to gain more insight into my inner world.
It is Autumn
when I notice the blustery
wind of the fall season
stir orange and brown
maple leaves to leap, whirl
and dance down the street
while choreographing
trees to sway back and forth
in rhythm to a rushing sound
Times Worth Remembering
Baby toddles and falls
in rich, soft grass
of backyard behind
two story home
full of celebrations
and laughter
Robust smell of tri-tip
cooks on grill as food
overflows from kitchen
White tailed deer
observes from afar
and waits for vegetable
leftovers to be brought
to homemade trough
built with purpose
to feed wildlife
Periodically, they leap
down hill to make
an appearance
much to the excitement
of the people
Over time buck
leads his family
away to search
for other provision
once owner passes
Baby, now a young man
brings own growing
children to yard
and shares stories
of his past
As he looks towards
hillside with love
he remembers
climbing to top
with his grandfather
who was full of life
and who continues to live
in grandson’s heart
New Planting
Questions
Discussions Reasoning
Explanations
Frustrations Exerting
Suggestions
Directions Releasing …
an adult child to life resolving to make her choices
and mistakes no matter how they are viewed
Like a branch
that falls from a tree
buried beneath the soil
watered by tears of grief
warmed by love
a transformative season
can sprout in her world
Characteristic of a cutting
She will grow into a new plant
still connected to the main source
The family from which she came
To Run Senselessly
I run.
I run.
And I run.
I have been running for decades now, just running,
running to and from work, running to and from church,
running to and from the stores, just simply running,
not even paying any serious attention to the world around me,
to the people who act like they’ve lost their natural minds,
to the current events that are draining hope and courage out of
just about everyone, to life in general, life in general,
life in general. I just run, running out of breath, joints aching,
barely keeping up. I just run, sometimes wondering why I run,
why I allow myself to be reduced to nothing more than
a hamster on a treadmill, running for his natural life and
going nowhere, running for food, running for clothing,
running for shelter, running for some kind of paycheck,
so that I can keep on affording to live, just running,
just running, just running, running, running. And it would
make sense if I had a destination I was running towards,
some great prosperity, some opulent wealth, some colossal career,
some famous name, some golden palace, some promised land
somewhere. But I don’t. I just keep running, running, running
this mindless marathon of mediocre maintenance, just running,
with sorrowful loneliness as my running companion, just running and
wondering how I wound up here, wherever here may be.
Maybe I’m running now, running, running, running, to forget,
running to forget, running to forget that a good part of my family died
when my Mom died, and no one left behind has even thought of
coming forward to try and fill in that horrendous gap,
to even try to be as loving and nurturing and joyful and gentle
and healing as she was. And sometimes, I find myself wondering,
for a brief instant, if they ever could. And then I keep running,
running, running, running to forget it all, just running, just running,
just running. Maybe I’m just running, running, running,
because I know, deep down inside, that if I really stop running
and rest,
for one
brief
instant,
I will fall down and burst into a billion endless tears, tears, tears,
tears for all the times I could have lived and didn’t,
tears for all the times I should have loved and didn’t,
tears for so much loss, so much loss, so much loss
over so many years, so many years, so many years, tears
for all the dreams I’ve had to lay to rest in the earth
like a mother losing all of her precious children,
like a father losing the will to live when his last child falls like
an Autumn leaf. And I am so weary of running, running,
running, running, running. But it seems as though running
has become the only thing I know how to do well,
really, really well. And so, like a creature of sorrowful habit,
I run, and I run, and I run, and I run, and I run,
run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, as if to
escape some lifelong pain and yet utterly forgetting
that the pain is already deep down inside of me,
causing me to run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run, run.
---
Lord,
I just want to stop running.
Lord,
I just want to rest without weeping.
Lord,
I just want to sleep without
wasting away,
Lord.
---
I run,
and I run,
and I run,
run,
run,.
run.
What is the Sound
If a tree falls
in the midst of an abandoned forest,
does it make a sound?
If a lonely man falls
in the midst of an abandoned home,
does he make a sound? Will anyone hear
his tears?
Will anyone understand?
Will anyone care?
What is the sound of one hand clapping?
What is the sound of one tear falling?
What is the sound of one heart breaking?
What is the sound of one soul weeping?
What is the sound of one lonely man lost
in an endless abandoned wilderness?
Do love, mercy, and forgiveness have a sound?
What is the sound of healing?
When hope is restored to the heart,
is there a sound?
Can one hear the Sound
of Eternal Love?
A Friend to Remind Me
I travel a path,
a long, distant, desolate path soaked with tears,
all the days I have wept over the meaningful moments
lost to forgetfulness. I just need someone to remind me.
I have grown weary on this endless path,
so weak that the number of times I slip and fall
only seems to be increasing; and I have to move with a quickness
to get back to my feet before someone else sees me,
thinks I’m an easy mark, and attacks without mercy.
I need someone to remind me, anyone who cares. I
once had a clear sense of purpose, or did I,
before it was lost to the shadows of obscurity with each passing
decade, my footsteps automated like a creature of habit
locked in a futile pattern, my eyes repeatedly blinded by the Sun
as I keep looking up to heaven for some sort of answer to
who and what and why I am. Can someone please,
PLEASE remind me of the things that make our souls real.
I just need to remember why we have to love one another.
I just need to recall the greater value of a bitter truth
compared to a sweet lie. I just need to be reminded of why
we must always use things for the love of people
instead of using people for the love of things. I just need to remember
what it means to have dignity, to have self-worth,
to have a meaningful sense of understanding, to have love,
so that in remembering, I can recognize my destination,
once and for all, put an end to traveling this weary path,
and truly rest. All I need is a friend to remind me,
from time to time.
Falling in Love
All they hear are my words,
reverberating in the therapy room,
an overplayed lullaby.
A friend once caught us
strolling down the street.
He's no toad, you know, she said,
an epiphany flickering in her eyes.
That's the point-
they wouldn't understand,
unless they laid eyes on him-
Adonis in real life, whose face
is like the jagged mountains,
on which I walk.
Catcher in the Rye
I want to catch you
when you fall
feel proud
as the crowd watches
and applauds
live in the fantasy
of my glory
not the reality of my failures
be I a hero or coward
to think this way
Like Holden Caulfield
I roam across town
on a dining spree
finding solace
in the stale taste
of deli coffee and pastry
the indifference of strangers
October Fall Fest
The Call of the Weird
Orange and black stores stuffed with
Gummy eyeballs, blood-dripping fangs
Bones, attached and un-
Skulls, wax fingernails
Masks, so many masks!
Domino, half-face plastic
Full head hiding hair and ears
One can transform into a pretty
Witch or ugly princess
Beautiful or repulsive
Sexy or grotesque
As a child, simplicity ruled.
A bum, a gypsy, a ghost
Utilizing available home items
Occasionally a boxed store-bought
Cheese cloth costume, once worn
Losing its magic.
Adults invest more to reveal
An alter ego
Complete transformation relying
On surprise disclosure as the trick
Or treat of the evening.
In the redolence of scorched Jack-o-lanterns,
Children hustle from house to house
With plastic pumpkins or paper
Sacks screeching “Trick ‘r Treat”.
While teens lumber up in
Undisguised thuggishness thrusting
Pillowcases, demanding candy.
With shouts, screams and howls
People move through the darkness.
The goblins will get you
If you don’t look out.
Now on the weekly walk on the weird
Side with vampires, zombies and
Assorted story-book villains, the
Fear of what’s out there, is broken
By commercials for cars, cat food
And pharmaceuticals to return
Us to normalcy.
The senses miss
The Candy Corn, Wax lips,
Apples, cider and cinnamon.
But even “smell-o-vision” would not
Be able to recapture the mystique of
All Hallow’s Eve. It’s weird.
