you tell stories
your own truths
and share their light

ai li

d  e  w  -  o  n  -  l  i  n  e
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four

created, designed & edited
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by  ai  li

for the first tea rose i can't recall
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out of still

                        midnight
                        a whistler and his footsteps

                        tide.
                        he's in
                        my new man

                        the curve of her nails
                        as she hands me -
                        milk bread matches

                         what is this need?
                         for one song I'd give away
                         a summer night;
                         the moon half-hidden, half
                         between venus and mars

                        stuck for an answer
                        I lower my eyes
                        her ten red toenails

                        the maple blushes
                        caught by autumn
                        in someone's garden

                         We don't deserve to be here
                         with our backs to one another;
                         bookends.

                        cold cemetery
                        the long sleeves of your old coat
                        warm my fingertips
                        even from beyond the grave
                        you manage to comfort me

                        painting a room
                        blue
                        to hear
                        the sound
                        of a night brush

                         They are trying to clear space
                         in N16; a star hangs
                         from a crane.

                        the hunter moon
                        hides behind the clouds tonight
                        how can i essay
                        my heart's deepest yearnings
                        when there's nothing but silence?

                        lpissing in the snow-
                         how quickly
                         things melt away

                        lDead pines mirrored in stream--
                         from wind-stirred pines
                         a rising phalanx of geese

                        lAppalachian Trail

                         Full moon

                         so many deer in the clearing

                        lRazorblade
                         Wind-

                         Hold me safely.

                         Dawn pursues the night's
                         inner chorus:
                         the first siren of the day.

                         just when i thought
                         my muse had left me
                         a leaflet          at the end                    of a black branch

                       you love me because I'm poetry in a field of ripe wheat

                       when you come near, hills sway, wave upon wave in endless rhythm

                       moved by your winds, but free, the sea would cease if you could tame her

                         approaching storm . . .
                         every car i hear
                         is yours

                         Inking drawings still wet--
                         through the glass at sunset
                         leaf-shade patterns the desk

                         Winter, A Renga

                         Stone has energy

                         so strong it stuns me; ice cold

                         assaults my fingers

                         Still beneath the creek's gurgle

                         stones grizzled with black lichens

                         Dusk comes feather gray,

                         a dark bird wheeling past sight

                         over my left shoulder

                         Two grazing deer disappear

                         in beaten winter grasses

                         Walking
                         the railroad tracks
                         alone -
                         more and more we live
                         our parallel lives

                         STEPPING STONES

                         Fragments
                         of Heraclitus

                         more a mantra
                         than a name

                         "we never step in-
                         to the same river twice"

                         keep moving
                         through the fire

                         Sweltering dusk--
                         on an empty street, pigeons
                         peck at cigarette butts

                         Jazz

                         All-black dancer
                         two white body jewels
                         making up her own rhythm
                         even in her sleep

                         slowing down
                         the washing up
                         for moon

                         Non-stop TV
                         You turn me on
                         Non-stop love

                         in this world
                         there are bird songs
                         and nothing else

                         PORTRAIT OF BASHO

                         Though his skin is hard, the priestly coat grey
                         the lines on the face undulate like meadows

                         Because the bamboo pole has seen the Deep North
                         the eyes are careful, yet twinkling with surprise

                         Under the white hat there is a lonely road
                         singing of a frog or the world in blossom

through a hole in the leaf - leaves

                         nights like this

                           when the rain falls soft,

                                steam rises from city streets.

                        rises from wet black streets:

                            all that's left of the heat of the day.

                        all that's left

                            on nights like this...

                                   the wet black sound

                                        of falling rain.

                         he longs to hear
                         his footsteps
                         the man in a wheelchair

                         Leaves scattered between
                         currents of winding stream...
                         the brief meaning of things

                         unable
                         to
                         sleep
                         i
                         kiss
                         you
                         over
                         &
                         over
                         again
                         until
                         my
                         lips
                         bleed

                         knife-edge of the moon
                         pinning down the night

                         fish
                         in my sleep
                         they swim
                         in bouillabaisse

                         bad hair day
                         everywhere
                         the wind

                         Japanese Lanterns

                         By the doorstep, so country common a thing to see
                         -Japanese lanterns.  Some five of them, reduced

                         to their skeletal frame, more delicate than lace,
                         caging small orange bulbs-bulbs burning bright

                         by the doorway this dim December afternoon,
                         suggesting something still to be occasioned.

                         snow flurries
                         stacking an arm load
                         of firewood

                         who said
                         you can live
                         without love?

                         emptying
                         the
                         rice bowl

                        again...

                         Spring afternoon
                         deepens in the leaves...the gravedigger
                         goes on sleeping

                         Birthday party
                         Under flowering cherries--
                         Petals in the wineglass

                         tracing
                         the veins
                         on a leaf
                         as you read
                         the doctor's report

                         Grief, A Renga

                         beach light fades

                         combers booming in

                         sea grass sways in my ears

                         a table set in the dim bar

                         all the absent months vanished

                        that was then and now

                        I anticipate you dark and spangled

                        re-member a sky

                        every star or so we begin to love

                        then the sun drops into the Indian Ocean

                        you hold the door open

                        for me

                        I pass and it closes

                         Dusk shadows of crows...
                         the dirt road impassable
                         with a lightning-struck oak

                         rain
                         running down his lifeline
                         accident site

                         side view mirror
                         of a passing car--
                                       passing face

                         power failure:
                         nothing but the light
                         of the summer moon

                         train braking system
                         drawing us together

                                                                          sapporo haiku

                   THE SUCHNESS POND, IN APRIL

                  Sunlight on pebbles
                  ebbing like water
                  the dew on moss
                  presence

                  & nothing we could say, unsay, would undo the letting go, the falling, into such
                  brilliant air

                         eel swerving
                         into rock

                         A hairpin curve
                         winding down through mountain pines...
                         the moon's climb at twilight

                         a
                         blind
                         and
                         silent
                         dream

                         on the dune
                         a white fan shell
                         glistening salt

                         you with fever
                         the sirens fuel
                         the dark
                         with sea ghosts
                         and their old songs

                         striding from the surf
                         in brilliant
                         waterskin
 

                         Transatlantic (Manchester-Chicago 30.4.02)

                         Dry tongue licks dry lips.
                         From here the sky looks smaller,
                         anticipating...

                         She smiles, offers bread.
                         Poured wine catches glancing sun
                         soaring in stillness.

                         No break in bright clouds.
                         I may never see Iceland.
                         Perhaps it's raining.

                         Mountains rise below.
                         Carefully, time turns backwards:
                         drops in the ocean.

                         Above unknown seas,
                         half way between two somewheres,
                         I am always Here.

                         Turning from the sun,
                         an after-image of snow:
                         wings gleam in calm blue.

                         Centuries of man:
                         small roads barely visible;
                         still lake mirrors sky.

                         Patterns become clear.
                         Gliding through turbulent air
                         all earth becomes home.

                         Touching the same earth,
                         I sit half a world away
                         breathing the same air.
 

                         body hair alight
                         not moving
                         from the sun
 

                         the customer's eyes
                         following a drop of sweat
                         into the waitress blouse
 

                         LAMBS

                         are silly
                         clumsy, so much

                         out-of-tune
                         their unrefined

                         believing that
                         grass is green

                         just about able
                         to spring the

                         roots of an oak
                         not sensing

                         the length of
                         its shadow

                         unaware of how
                         their future

                         their blood is
                         tied up, will be

                         cut, they prance
                         & fall & pick

                         themselves up
                         delightfully 

                         it grows light . . .
                         orchard :   windfall
                         in the grass
                         no one
                                     heard them

                         Grandfather peeks
                         through the donut hole
                         the baby's laughter

                         ocean waves . . .
                         the blue curls
                         in Poseidon's hair

                                          Gathering Clouds

                         We could be secure
                         sheltered from any crumpling horizons.
                         Atmospheres are tempered
                         and all the weathers
                         culminating.

                         I don't want to stay
                         and await the flood;
                         there is already on your face
                         a rain that will not soon
                         be dried.

                         I step carefully round
                         the puddles of last night's rain
                         dew inside my shoes

                         AFTER LI PO                       (for Gunaketu)

                         In late                                     Young
                         March                                    as I am
                         I go                                         old
                         down                                      as I am
                         to the water                           the roots 
                         there are                                & wings
                         anemones                             of the mind
                         flowering                                dog's
                         in there                                   mercury
                         blue sky                                  celandine
                         green                                      joyfully
                         with life                                   ancient                          

                         Meditation
                         and can a simple breath
                         calm stormy seas

                         Grandma's wooden box  :
                         faded love letters
                          tied in satin ribbons

                         flicker of light
                         shadows travel quickly
                         wind driven candle

                         november
                         feeling my age
                         forgetting my birthday
                         the cake shop window
                         fly

                         cluttered drawer
                         a poppy of ink blooms
                         on an old poem

                         One
                         Tiny Teddy
                         left.

                         a passing bus
                         stirs up cherry petals
                         evening sun

                         hooked
                         on designer silk
                         love-life
                         hanging by a thread

TEMPTATION

Eyes
widen
and a smile
now writes itself
crookedly across the lies in his mouth

                         tea ceremony
                         of our love...

                         you drink

                         i drank

                         bottomless
                         cups

                         incessant rain

                         wren house
                         old wood
                         door hole black

                         Namida

                         end of the year,
                         my murmurs before God
                         grown louder...
                         tears halved/quartered/
                         three for you/one for me.

                         ears into the wind
                         and the rush of the world;
                         dead pine needles

                         Snake River

                         the sun sharpens the wind

                         to a race of grass on the riverbank

                         a glitter on waves

                         Searching for the answer to crop circles
                         Round and round
                         the scarecrow.

                         nursing home
                         Mum smiles this time
                         at what she thinks I said

                         winter afternoon . . .
                         a crow blackens
                         the white sky

                         just the leaves
                         of a silk tree
                         moving to air-con

                         high on the ledge
                         white fantails
                         preening

                         LITTLE SPRING POEM, FOR KENNETH WHITE

                         The birches of the mind, here
                         we speak the same language

                         Chaotic & joyful, making wine
                         from the sweetness of rising sap

                         This poem written
                         on karate school
                         flier.

                         PRISON FLOWER BED

                         The petunias are kicking off
                         in a riot of colour

                         But one quiet grey sock
                         is planted
                         amongst purple
                                         pink
                                         violet
                                         and mauve

                         hearth confession
                         perhaps
                         the champagne
                         and bear rug
                         were a bad idea

                         Summer heat.
                         Little boy gazes
                         at fallen ice-cream

                         Plump black olives
                         heaped in a bowl :
                         the tang
                         of an ancient culture
                         ripens

                         your yarmulka
                         edged with gold thread
                         my dusk
                         adding to
                         its mauve

                         Not a Kingfisher   (For Margritte)

                         Caught in all mediums
                         metal oil and watercolour
                         He outflashes them all
                         Picks all artistic locks
                         Slipstitches the autumn water
                         Slips through the finest net
                         of our finest imaginings

                         And burns away across an evening river.

dog stretches black under moonlight

                         Train rattles through the wind...
                         where the distance clears:
                         mist from the cataracts

                         a smell of jasmine tea
                                     drifting after love
                                           rainy cottage

                         dusk
                         late violets glimmer
                         under the moontouched roses
                         and into the silence
                         blackbirdsong

                         i tell you
                         that you will be leaving
                         one day     you shake your head
                         to the rhythm
                         of her name

                         spring rain
                         letter from overseas
                         with soaked stamps

                         Motor bike at lights -
                         rider's boots
                         have high heels.

                         bleached hair
                         you fail to emulate
                         her walk
                         the breathlessness
                         from another age

                                                           for marilyn

                         WRITING POEMS

                         Joyfully the young birch lets go of scattered seed
                         my love & I, we are playing together
                         writing poems

ROOMSCAPE: WITH DRAGONFLY

sunshine and rainbows
crash down from high windows and
splash in your glass - while

the dragonfly shines
above voices and laughter
headlocked to ceiling

                         SURPRISED BY THE EARTH

                         inside me
                             the old
                                trick
                                    of Spring
                         hazel
                            birch
                               leaves
                                  nothing
                         new
                            again
                               it is
                                  the April
                         choir
                            of
                               the sparrow
                                  trees
                          the early
                             morning
                                mist
                                  as
                          I walk
                             slowly
                                to
                                   the house
                          hungry
                             the lane
                                of cow
                                   parsley
                          evening
                              fears
                                 an empty
                                    cup
                          singing

                         Dropping in On an Old Neighbor

                         Once promiscuous as a carnival ride she spends her days in a
                         trailer watching television and smoking five packs of cigarettes.
                         Thin as a rail and hollow-eyed, she doesn't remember me, and I
                         wonder that I ever thought her erotic. Leaving, canned laughter
                         follows me down the moon bright path.

                         why
                         rake the leaves
                         they already know

f i n i s

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are invited
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