A Plastic Bag

“I am a plastic Bag drifting up and down  
I used to be holding coupons of discount

But an old bloke put me up in the air

Now I’m a flying adventurer, gliding with flair.
I see rivers of pollution and trash and junk

For humans in the lakes, garbage, plunk

I see clouds of waste and land of litter

For they in the nature, kill and spittle .
I stare at suffocated blue tits and jays

Screeching in the misty Beijing haze

I stare at dying dolphins, plastic bag on snout

For they were trapped, with no life or no air to pout.
I gawk at forest fires that mist the sky

For them humans, they smoke and die

I gawk at the tall metropolis and houses

For they tear the chest of the Earth, the louses.
I think of my destiny that sways in the breeze

The fate of the Earth rests upon my knees

But I’m only a frail adventurin’ plastic bag

I’m not a human, not a lion, not a stag .”

The plastic bag drifts past and lands under a tyre.

His skin splits as he is ripped like the strings of a lyre
Quest or not.

Plastic Bag’s tale lives on, 

Inspiring us to save our environment, no scorn. 

Advertisements

Lone Wolf of the Desert

The sun sweeps over the desert plains

Scorching the sky into dusk

But no one would ever know it contains

The lone wolf of the desert

Pale ginger fur that shifts like the dunes

Light dawn eyes of ashes and cinder

Padding after the streak of sun, like a trance

Its pelt is flaming, scorching, kindled

As the sky turns night-black

It rises up, fur fiery and sparkling

It’s the guardian of the desert, leader of the pack

It’s an Indian Phoenix arising in the darkening

Auburn, sleek fur that pricks up the breeze

Dark blue eyes of the midnight sky

Night-kissed cheeks, stars in its tease

The guardian spreads golden wings to fly

He soars through dunes, lands on cacti

Ruby light trailing after its gorgeous eyes

And a star swept by his cheek, to imply

He was Brahma in disguise

The dawn sheds light on the tired mutt

Who shuffles his aching paws

No one must know he is dog by day but

The Lone Wolf of the Desert with the sapphire eyes

Dove

Your chaste white feathers

Your dainty feet

Your dazzling eyes the colour of heathers

As you gift us a precious tweet.

 

You hold an olive branch

One dedicated to peace

Your feathers seem more bleached

As they swing in the breeze.

 

Young lavender eyes sparkle

Unlike that of a hawk’s

Your coat seems to bristle

Are you trying to talk?

 
You are my muse, my model, my favourite bird

You are an angel in disguise

You seem to destroy and calm discord

As you flap your wings, hoping to rise.

 

You’re my inspiration, my cherub, the bird I hold dear

You’re the goddess of harmony, the kindest animal

You’re the puzzle piece, the last gear

You bless us with concord, very admirable.

 

You’re a disguise of Fortuna, the spreader of Fortune

Your coos are melodic to the ear

You shun fighting and war, discord and torture

You’re the defender of serenity, the Peaceful Musketeer.

A Simple Love Song

If songbirds could bring their charisma between their wings

And sing so every bird loved them

I am not a one who overwhelms in the sea of sirens

And my legs do not scream te quiero

And I am no songbird

Who raises a wing to carve each single feature of David with a chisel carefully

Who demands the wren to stand on the top branch
But you hear my chirp

Which echoes through your corazón

We fly through deserted parks that once served as the venue

For 2005’s summertime music festival

Lemonade and sawdust

A complain for a piña colada.

I sometimes yearn to be the pineapple

So my coconut can always stay close to me.

I sometimes yearn to be the cutting coolness of September

Whose flagella caresses the trees with a honey-smooth touch
Can Juliet hear the songbird’s cry?

Who has counted his own heart with the feathers on his wings

And plucked them out one by one

As the feathers are deserted yet again

Like the park who once yielded to a songbird and its wren

Who has covered its own soul with eternal mist

The cold minty mist of September, I suppose

It whips in my feathers so!

But as my soul is covered

Where is my wren?

The wren has silenced itself

The songbird has quieted itself
Like teabags

I am Earl Gray you are Breakfast

We clash and embrace

And hold the mist in our mugs

Good old fashioned mugs with checkers on them

And a few spills of the tea

Is it possible for the teabag to wither?

To charge itself with the Spring-tinged flavour of April mist?

To die on a bed of tangerine-veined June tears?
I wonder so.
My songbird has many hearts.

One for his wren

One for the cold minty mist of September

For his wren lives in September.
He ignites the hay with his scorching mist of August

And waits for the wren

Her mist is intelligible.

His mist is anxious.
Yes, she can still hear his fateful chirp that brought her to

Life and death

Through hope and despair.

Her mist wavers on the wide highway

As the gray truck rides into the sunset

And she wonders

Could the couple in the truck

Have been he and I?
He chirps on singing the same song

Pondering his sanity

On the ridge of insanity

But with sweet certainty

He has loved and been loved.

Snowflake

Whenever snowflakes fall on my small porch

And my fireplace crackle in trembling cold

I sigh and bury my face into my cashmere scarf

Smelling of once familiar perfume
Every time winter clutches the summer-mourning world

You present me at Christmas

Snowflakes to sprinkle upon my roof

Fire to toast my bread upon

And the perfume that comes only in snow season
What is the magic of the winter

That hooks the petals out of my cloth?

What is the power of the snowflakes

Who freeze even the water in the dog’s bowl?

The ice ironically shatters in the season of ice

Why do my memories stream back to my brain?

Why do they choose to dive into my ocean?
The porch is straddled with snow next to its snow-bleached gate

Crystals of water slumber with odd branches of ice

The fire burns like so every Christmas and winter

Every ember a wish, a miracle not granted

Every burnt out log a remembrance of the owner

Of the scarf.

A charred wood log rolls out with a crackle

Cravings. Cravings. Cravings.

All I carved on the log

None of them akin to the shadow who disappeared
Leather winter boots with pink buttons

Withdrawn into itself away from the other shoes

In my cabinet.

It mourns a person of geranium and daisy

The avid reader the fireplace embraced

The tamer of snowflakes who would brush them

With soft, long fingers 

The shy boots shuffle away

Continuing to mourn

The owner of themselves.
I don’t think this song as a serenade

Through all the snow piles and

Burning bonfires

Leather boots drifting with familiar geranium scent

Is it for you?

For Nature?

For the fireplace who has always welcomed both of us?
The furnace crackles on, engulfing the newly tossed logs

I wonder

Is the force of death similar to that?

What if I cast myself into the fireplace?

Will I see the one again?

Like the snowflakes on my hot cup, will we melt away 

Into water and do good to humankind?

The logs continue to burn in the flame

And I warm myself

Looking out of the window and flicking away the curtains

I like to think you are the icy moon

Seemingly cold but always watching me

At night I saw your face in the lunar planet

All the silver contours and sharp features

I shouted to you

“Has woe betided you? My dear sister!”

You never answered. 

Your face and expression full of warm moonlight
I raced to the small dirt mound next to our house

And stared at your face

As you grimaced

The black faded and became ombré pink

You screamed as if demented

I said “Sister, my dear sister!”

I never heard a call so sorrowful.

“You are the hidden nightingale

In the bricks of our foundation

Spread my word to your mother!”
Dear sister, sing on in the moon

I hear your calls of moonbeams

And sacred, shy moonlight smiles

Do not bid me a teary farewell

Dear sister, do not accuse me 

Of being late to call to your lunar presence

Maybe it is the golden Ursa next to you

That fractures your power

It catches me in a net

Never let me go

It may be the bear protecting from death
But as I see your shallow grave in the sea

In the rusty sunken ship 

On a seabed of moonlight

I dip my head

Planting a carved log on your resting place

Your leather boots next to your sleeping blue eyes

And a melting snowflake on your nose.
And I see the moon still

But the Ursa is no longer appealing

I see death

It is a unpredictable universe in the world itself

No longer afraid

Even though it is fathomless

I run into your lunar embrace

And feel my wings sprout from my back. 

The Stars stopped me from leaving

But you, my sister, the Moon, you saved

Me

From what is another lifetime of fear
All I can say

Praise to death

You, my sister

My mother

The protective stars

Snowflakes

Bonfires

Leather boots

And everything in between.
Your silver complexion is lustrous 

As I rub my eyes

In awe

My leather boots getting muddy.

Have I dreamt too much?

Behind me in the sea, unknown to me,

A giant wave comes bubbling 

With the sound of death

I dive into it.

I am not afraid.

Matches

Matches

Like a flicker of hope in a dark space

She sees the pedestrians coming closer

As she brandishes her precious matches with a smile on her face

She realises they aren’t heading for her.

She was once young, wild and free

Dozens of maids and servants surrounding her before

In her hands a bright, amazing destiny

Until all her dreams shattered on the floor.

 

Her father owed people millions in USD

Her mother an avid drug user

And all the money for her bright excellency

Dissolved at the hands of two losers.

She waits on the step of a rich family

To have the mistress scream in her face

A match is stolen by a beggar violently

And a slipper disappears to slow her pace.

Her mother has told her “You must sell all.”

“If you don’t, go hang yourself, you trashpile”

There is still no one to answer the girl’s mournful call

Unless somebody would stop for a while.

There are three matches left after a brutal beating

From the triads straying on the cold streets

She can hear the Christmas choirs singing

And the frostbite on her feet.

She strikes a match and lights a flare

And closes her glass-bead-like eyes

“It would be nice to have someone care

And take me cruising through the skies.”

Suddenly, an astral prince swoops from the night

Cape mottled with Cancer, Virgo and Capricorn

He takes her to the limit of the Stars’ height

On their flying midnight unicorn.

She falls from the night without her prince

And breaks her ankle in great pain

But she hasn’t forgotten the happiness since

She lit the first match of bliss it contained.

“Magic match, please do give me

A chance to feel love and affection.”

Says the dreamy girl in ecstasy

Ready to embrace her destined attention.

A snowman of frost rises from the ground

Hugging the match girl with more love than everyone

He takes his hat off with a magical sound

And creates a cup of hot cocoa warm as sun.

The match girl feels the snowman die away

As she drinks the cocoa in her hands

She looks at her frozen limbs in awe

Thinking of the faraway taiga lands.

Rubbing the last match with her chest

She wishes deeply in her heart,

“I want to run away from this coldness and unrest,

So match, give me another start!”

Her dead grandmother lands in front of her

With long alabaster hair and rosy cheeks

“Mira, come to me, come closer

I’ll take you to the start you seek.”

Mira feels wings sprout from her back

And she spots her corpse on the frosty lane

She blows a kiss to herself and is taken aback

At the glimmering heaven prepared in her name.

The policemen pry Mira’s dead body into the sunlight

And see the three extinguished matches

One says,” She must have gone in the starlight.

Look at her starry catch.”

A silver star glistens, pinned to her frock

And she has a beautiful smile

To all the policemen’s dismay and shock

She is now a heaven’s child.

Reflection

Reflection of Age

A mystical pool of magic and time

Hides behind dreamy ferns

And the power that is so sublime

Is the pool, to be concerned. 

I walk over in red silk slippers

Gazing right at the rippling pool

Pebbles wide as dolphin flippers

Make memories of childhood and school.

I see princesses and ballerinas waltzing across

Halls and rose vine-entangled ballrooms

The sound of hymns in the way of the cross

A bored child snoring in a classroom.

And slowly do the slippers in the pool shrink

Into polished black leather shoes 

And I see a dress, my uniform, I think

Alabaster with stripes of mint hues.

Soda pops and I believe it to be

A dark green kindergarten graduation hat

Look more closely and I see

My fetish and obsession with cats.

Then my black school shoes grow

Into two fountain pens I love

I see my writing book black as a crow

And my muse, my inspiration: a dove.

Soon there’s a clouding of mist and toxic smoke alike

And my pens become a vine of thorny roses

My hands bleed and seep scarlet blood from the spikes

The vines are blocking my nose.

Soon the pens appear again entwined

In the intricate netting of floral work

I grab my pen in the pool and draw a sign

And it destroys the network.

My fountain pens have morphed into a pen and pad

And the roses have gone to rest

It’s telling me to start anew with no bad

And obviously make the best.

And at last I see myself slouching at night

On my marble floor slash workplace

A single tear drips in my sight

How I have misused my age.

And when I open my cedar shoe cabinet

And stare at the empty space

My red silk slippers are nowhere

So are my school shoes with socks and lace.