Letting Go

Get this thing from out my mind,

It should never undermine,

It should go and let me be,

It should go and I’ll be free!

Tear it out from in my heart,

From its madness I can part,

From its sadness I can leave,

From its gladness be reprieved!

Give me quiet from this thing,

Let the angels to me sing,

And their beauty touch my skin,

Cleanse it of this rotten sin.

Fling me through the air of night

To a tiny cliff respite,

Hanging over emptiness,

Hidden in the safe abyss.

Let it pass now overhead

While I pretend to be dead,

Like a fire let it burn

Till it uses all its yearn.

Drowned in the waves of night,

Of the scary empty fright,

Of the passion now destroyed,

Like a child losing his toy.

Like a child losing his toy?

A pathetic little boy,

For the moment is annoyed

Till something new soon employs.

Now the fickle flames have died

And I forget why I cried,

As the light world moves on by,

Floating like a carefree sigh.

Like the winds over valleys,

Through pleasant small town allies,

Whispering to the faeries,

Gliding over rich prairies.

Hantz Farms

The Apocalypse: what would it look like?
Half the people now gone,
When the gods’ dike
That holds back raging waters was half withdrawn.

Weeds overgrown, buildings abandoned,
Houses like faces of ghosts,
And locals who look stranded
On an endless cracked concrete coast.

In the streets of Detroit, I walk,
Looking over my shoulder
Wary that the locals may stalk
If they get a bit bolder.

In search of an antidote
To save the rest of the nation
Before the decay begins to float
And spread devastation.

I find endless graffiti
Like messages from a lost race
I find a past century’s
Train station an empty disgrace.

At last! Beneath the infectious decay
Lined up in neat rows,
I find children of the new way
In brilliant purity glow.

The tree saplings stand short but straight
Ready to grasp at the future,
To change the city’s fate
By one day being prized furniture.

The locals get bold but do not stalk,
They come to see the tree farm
And are merely glad to talk,
One says, “I don’t see any harm.

“I see only promise in these trees,
That from our torpid chains
Will set our strength free
To build something of value to sustain.”

The Old Man

A hunchbacked man, at least a hundred years old

Hobbles by as I wait for the train,

I brace for the inevitable sharp pain,

When his grotesque odor will soon take hold,

But, to my surprise, instead, the proud bold

Smell of a rich cologne reaches my brain

And I am left feeling dumb to complain

About something that never did unfold.

Now, he passes me almost every day;
I get the feeling he’s more rock than man,
A symbol of how time’s long river can
Sculpt the hardest earth on its endless way.

The train arrives and I am left to think:
When I’m that old, shall I be rock or stink?

Thumping Sound

What is that mechanical thumping sound

At this early hour in the morning,

When I should be laying quaintly snoring?

On my fragile head it seems to pound

And shake the quiet and untouched ground,

As if, with its artificial boring, 

It drills into precious thoughts I’m storing

Of secrets and ideas deeply profound.

Or, wait … Is that a woodpecker out there?

It is! And how magical the bird seems

Like a mythical creature from a dream,

Redheaded sprite who deftly jabs the air.

Away it flies into dreams and nature,

Hidden behind all of what we are sure.

Ode to the Villagers of Zhouguantun

Just a story, just a tale, from some time
When impossibly heroic stories rhymed
Three hundred Spartans fought to their death
Against a million Persians on their path.
Noble, poised, fed on hearty justice,
The Spartans embodied heroic grace,
But were drowned in history’s vast ocean
By all us who drink the modern potion
That makes us thoroughly logically sense
That we cannot make a difference.

Not a story, not a tale, from the East,
From China, where the red communist beast
Persecutes practitioners of Falun Gong,
Not because they did anything wrong,
But because corrupt officials cannot stand,
Something spiritual the people understand.
The beast arrests, detains, tortures and kills
Only satisfied if it breaks your will,
And, like poison, it spreads propaganda
To perpetuate their evil agenda.

This is the story and the tale is now,
The Chinese people say they will not bow
Three hundred villagers in Zhouguantun
Face down devastation and their ruin,
On behalf of their fellow villager,
A local Falun Gong practitioner,
They sent an open message to Beijing
That through all history sent an epic ring,
Like the three hundred mighty Spartans
They screamed: “Release this innocent man!”

Read about the three hundred villagers of Zhouguantun here

Seven-Sonnet Cycle for Falun Dafa Day

I.

I’ve found the benefits meditation
Can offer you are unquestionable,
Yet, meditating itself is unable
To induce some wondrous transformation.
Your closed eyes and limbs’ cessation
Put you on par with the blind and disabled;
And you are no more than them capable
Of improving your body’s constitution.

As for your mind? It is wiped clean;
When done, your tranquil state is a white suit
Stained by even the purest of earth's fruit,
Absorbing all the colors most obscene.

That’s why each day I study the Buddha’s Law,
Lest my pristine mind be soaked with flaw.

II.

How deep and profound is the ancient Way
That has guided so many truth seekers
And takes those elements, crude and weaker,
Sublimating them for no reward or pay.
Now as Falun Dafa today,
At a time that has never seemed bleaker,
When there’s persecution of truth seekers,
It manifests the perennial Way.

It teaches looking inside in conflicts,
Striving toward what is true, kind, and pure,
Removing pursuits and attachments
While still following the course of nature.

With each new insight comes a new level,
And a new weapon against the devil.

III.

Satan is here! He is communism,
He is the evil that chokes man’s nature
And makes people think that there is no cure
For its problems outside atheism
That bitter and shallow pessimism,
Of a soul it cannot even be sure
Or something spiritual you felt occur,
All that’s left is empty hedonism.

“Stand with me and fight the devil’s forces!”
Yells the intrepid celestial captain,
“Cherish virtue, be good, and stay the course,
This war of the heart is one we can win!”

His legions of light fly from the palace
A determined look upon each one’s face.

IV.

Majestic setting without walls or roof
Behind the matter our two eyes perceive,
Behind false ideas that science believes,
Expanding to where a God sits aloof,
Once you’ve seen it you need no concrete proof,
All that man could hope to build and achieve
The greatest ideas man hopes to conceive,
Seem no more than a silly children’s spoof.

All around me, such resplendent beauty,
An elaborate and translucent world
Floats by, through the years gaining clarity;
More and more of heaven’s breadth is unfurled.

Yet, from the human realm, the mission calls,
For beings I’ve come to save, I won’t stall.

V.

The splendor of Christmas: a shining tree
With a star that lights the year’s darkest days,
Providing a warm and festive display
of pure joy at being alive and free.
Yet, there discovered upon that bright tree,
Upon one small light on that merry day,
A tiny speck of Chinese blood displayed,
Like the blood of Jesus in front of me.

A bleeding Falun Dafa practitioner
Toils in the labor camp, day and night,
Facing regular beatings and torture
Meant to destroy mankind’s most basic rights.

But who’s the biggest victim of them all?
The ones so duped as to not be appalled.

VI.

Wake up, man! We live in a human place,
People get angry, they fight and have wars,
Some have very little and some have more,
This is the condition of our flawed race.
There is actually very little space
Between this realm and the next, a thin door;
So, all the interpersonal rancor
And fighting with tradition are misplaced.

What matters is each crystalline moment,
What’s in your heart and if it can be true
To your family, country, mankind, to you,
Yourself, and all those who before you went.

At the crossroads of human existence,
Choose virtue and make a real difference.

VII.

The ebullient allure of winter’s end
Saturates the defrocked and war-torn earth
Like the tiny buds coyly springing forth
This benevolent force we can’t comprehend
In the universe we can’t understand
Has now in supreme splendor given birth
To an epic tale of sorrow and mirth
That shall guide us around this cosmic bend.

What mystery does this new journey hold?
What new circumstances we never thought
Possible could now amazingly unfold
And what is to become of what we’ve sought?

A Chinese man interrupts me and says,
“Here’s a balloon for Falun Dafa Day!”

Spring 2012

Apollo

Apollo beams a ray of virtuous light
Through the darkness that clouds men's minds,
Blinds them, and puts them on a path malign,
Making their creations an inhuman sight.
The God’s pure energy sets all things right;
Since it is alive, it actively finds
Concepts and delusions most unrefined
And crushes them with innocence’s might.

I look down from the powerful sculpture,
It is but one and dark rooms so many,
Where can I find another so pure
And infused with the air of a deity?

Alas, we must cherish the truly great,
The next renaissance can no longer wait!

March 3, 2012

Upon viewing Sabin Howard’s sculpture “Apollo”