no boundaries here
as we walk
hand in hand

ai li

d  e  w  -  o  n  -  l  i  n  e
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five

created, designed & edited
______________________________________________

by  ai  li

for sky now blue
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out of still

                        the barefoot child
                        finding a caterpillar
                        with no shoes on

                         There is something in me which cannot stand
                         A long poem, the way the oak apples
                         Fall on seeding nettles, the fact
                         That Basho went further than the rest
                         & he travelled on foot
                                                             the wind
                         Scatters itself over the ragged stones
                         Of Northumberland, I am
                         Alone, it is
                         Enough

                        i will come softly
                        in the night
                        like a moth
                        to your window

                         Archive drafts...
                         cobwebs hang from a shelf
                         with out-of-print monographs

                        WEST KENNET LONG BARROW

                        swallow me, goddess
                        your wound is a door

milk everywhere and the ghosts of cats
                        

quiet after solstice winds mountain snow
                         

                        pleading for death
                        in his chest
                        the steering column

                        moonlight
                        on the old bridge
                        giving every nail shadow
                        

                         on this frozen lake
                         ghost of
                         your voice
                         in cold rooms
                         echo

                        lLove embroidered
                           on the silk scarf.

                        lsunday school class--
                         coveting my neighbor's
                         faith

                        lEnlightenment

                         It comes into focus, the face of the man
                         in the moon.  Not just a disease of pock

                         and shadow, but the full faced caricature,
                         the same as seen by you, unknown illustrator

                         of my mother Goose, fellow artist
                         once maligned - now vindicated.

                         Twilight fades to slate-blue...
                         a dusting of snowflakes
                         on the lake-mirrored moon
                        

                         now that you are gone
                         the realization dawns
                         you are no longer
                         the brother
                         nor the friend
                         you are the man i love 

                         empty evening
                         fish & chips
                         on a newspaper
                         with headlines of
                         yet another war 

                         Squares of unsold plots...
                         slabs without flowers
                         scattered here and there in fog 

                         TALKING ABOUT LIFE AND POETRY AND THE 1953 FLOODS    

                         Out on that spit of land   
were houses overwhelmed by the sea    

And we   
decades later   
shaken   
in this thin space   
are awash with each other's words    

almost up to the sill today - the snail
                         

                         LEAF POEM
                         (for Julie)

                         The green
                         Miracle, feeding

                         The bark with light
                         From the darling buds

                         The sap descending
                         To the veins of root

                         Through you we give
                         The name of rowan

                          Maple, we give
                          & we are given

                          O sacred
                          Photosynthesis

                          O incredible
                          Leaf, the wings

                          Of the seed
                          Returning simply

                          By the turning
                          Of the ordinary world
       

                         Gates locked, old snowfall
                         covers the headstones...
                         the shadow of a shovel 

                         Wren for all Seasons

                         A thimble
                         borne on autumn leaves

                         A snuff box
                         filled with summer seeds

                         Tom Thumb
                         perched on springtime's palm

                         A haiku
                         for a winter psalm 

                         a matchstick spent
                         on formica
                         the smell of evening 

                         weary of silhouettes
                         I want something plump
                         in the hand 

                         IN THE SKIN HOUSE

                         There is the skin house
                         & there is a reason
                         for all this goo, sweaty
                         bits, either too big
                         or too small

                         It means we can walk
                         breath, sitting ourselves
                         into a balance, the feeling
                         of the earth, any
                         sentimental search

                         For the cliché
                         of being human, all that
                         is forgotten when joy
                         goes into happiness, when
                         the body is breathing

                         wasp
                         like time-lapse photography it was
                         in the air 

                         if another chance
                         should be given to me
                            i will catch the time
                            and clasp it tightly
                            on my palm
                              so that i can sing
                              with you again
                              and laugh with you
                              and dream with you
                                        over and over again

                         broken dryer
                                   three sheets
                                           to the wind

                         Maya           rainbow in the clouds
                         lighting our path
                         caged bird no more
                         singing          in a different key      

                            glorious golden
                         purple red sky
                                                so many
                           flowers for the void 

                         screams                  across oceans
                         now in aquamarine skies                 swifts    

                         caught by a leg  (in a discarded web)
                         d-r-a-g o n f l y    

                         Daisy Wheel

                         Suffer the daisies.
                         Come into their innocence
                         and forbid them not.

                         They are the day's eyes
                         even now ringing a smile -
                         I turn to garlands.

                         Rolling away in
                         the slipstream of a white van -
                         the lei of my love.

                         What god of the road
                         punches a wrist full or air
                         through this daisy chain? 

                         The rain makes tiny circles in the water, a mass
                         of wild garlic, cuckoo flowers, seeming so hardy
                         so shy & delicate, protected by ash

                         A robin flits among hazels, the rain
                         thickens, creating bigger circles, water
                         becoming water, the circles merge, become each other

                         This spring we could drink from, also the soul
                         of this place, a thicket of willow, blackthorn
                         separates from the field, years later, miles away

                         laying the scarecrow
                         across the bonfire
                         not without qualms   

                         Bed lamp turned low...
                         the moon's flicker through leaves
                         shadows the attic window   

                         PLATE 44, MIYAMOTO MUSAHI

                         Reading a book about the influence
                         of Zen on Japanese culture
                                                                        no poem

                         Looking at a picture by Niten, early-
                         17th century, a shrike
                         on a dead branch
                                                        no poem

                         How wonderful it is when the poem writes itself!
                         it takes over, it surrenders
                         completely, it bows to the void
                         victorious, it is the caterpillar
                         crawling up the branch, the colours
                         of the black-&-white painting
                                                                          start to sing

                         the storm rages -
                         hand shielding
                         the flame    breasts clothed
                         in candlelight
                                 she finds me 

                         nebulous shapes borne of the breath of silvery metaphors
                         
                                                                                             prodigal liars
                                                                                             leap into faith
                                                                                         clouds and dancers 

                         packing away
                         her cotton dresses
                         in my autumn 

                         OUR LAST WALK

                         In memory of Cody,
                         who left the earth June 15, 2002 

                         
                         Our last walk
                         past the willow
                         has come to an end.

                         Slow brushing
                         his golden fur before
                         we drive him to the vet.

                         His last meal -
                         a lamb chop
                         quickly gobbled.

                         Sun glinting off
                         our long black car -
                         his head bobs up and down.

                         From the back seat
                         his whimpers
                         pulling at my heart.

                         He gives me his paw
                         over and over,
                         and then his name is called.

                         "Such a good looking dog,"
                         even at the moment
                         of death.

                         His panting stops -
                         a year of seizures
                         also gone.

                         Euthanasia -
                         consoling me,
                         classical guitar.

                          The retriever who pranced
                          through our neigborhood
                          now at one with the Golden Light.

                          Silence greets me
                          as I walk into
                          the house.

                          Cleaning up -
                          finding his frisbee
                          under a chair.
         

                         tonight
                         i'm left
                         with departures
                         early opening roses
                         in the back room 

                         I must be there
                         I looked and looked
                         lost in other people's words
                         and faces 

                         ROOTS & WINGS

                         Become a seed
                         the tiniest

                         of them all
                         we will water you

                         with tears, the grief
                         of longing

                         for a name
                         we will call you

                         thistle
                         archangel

                         willowherb
                         you will become

                         a dark river, a root
                         of fire, the wings

                         of the mind
                         the wind

                         blows right through you
                         getting rid

                         of all worry
                         the letting-

                         go of self-pity
                         for this earth

                         is intelligent
                         this earth

                         is prayer
                         for survival

                         for the glory
                         of chaos, for love
                          
 
                         

                         Aspens lace stone walls
                         falling to emerald pools
                         translucent dresses. 

                         The bed unmade
                         must I sleep under dried rushes
                         like a mouse among owls?

                         Come home, the table
                         is set with clean linens,
                         cattails and old poetry. 

I am a glass flower under glass
hold me still

for when I break
I wound   deeply

then seal your wound  with my knowing ruby mouth
brand your soul with a jealous stigmata

this is how I love

I am a glass flower under glass
hold me quiet

for when I break   I injure
then taste your hurt with cruel lips boasting salient promises

you adore       I receive
you descend       I ascend
you exist only through me

this is how I Love
to your dreams   to death

break me...
                         

                         and when you left
                         the door was ajar
                         crumbs
                         in half-light
                         distant thunder