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四月一朝早 |
April wakes up laughing, |
你以為喇？
Speaking in Seeds
He does not answer plainly—
truth, in his mouth, refuses straight lines.
Instead—
he scatters.
A story falls here,
another there,
small as seeds slipping from a loosened hand.
No promise they will take root,
only the quiet insistence: receive, or do not.
I listen—
but not with the obedient part of me.
There is a field inside
that prefers certainty,
neat rows of meaning,
harvest I can name before it ripens.
Yet he speaks of soil
as if it were a mood—
fickle, tender,
easily bruised by its own stones.
And I wonder
which ground I have become.
Some words land
and vanish—
taken by the quick-winged thoughts
that fear depth.
Some linger,
but split themselves thin
against the hardness I keep
like a polished defense.
And some—
some disturb me.
They fall into the darker loam,
where I do not often look,
and there,
without asking,
they begin.
This is how he teaches—
not to instruct,
but to undo.
Each parable
a door that does not open outward,
but inward—
where the air is thicker,
and the light must be grown.
Tell me—
if meaning refuses to be held,
will you still follow its trace
into the unspoken?
蝶過無聲
|
蝶影掠過 |
A wing brushes past— |
Quiet Fire in the Court
The doors were never closed—
only crowded with the wrong hungers.
Coins spoke louder than breath,
their small metal tongues
licking the air where prayer should rest.
I enter late,
not as witness—
as echo.
There is always a table in me
laid out for bargaining:
touch for silence,
love for a softer leaving,
devotion measured in how long
I can remain untouched by truth.
Then—
the sound.
Not thunder,
not rage,
but something cleaner—
wood against stone,
the body remembering its right to space.
He does not shout like men do
when they want to be feared.
He moves like certainty—
unfolding,
unanswerable.
And everything false
begins to scatter.
I feel it—
not in the air,
but under the ribs,
where I have kept my careful trades.
What is overturned
does not break—
it reveals.
The coins roll,
small moons fleeing their orbit;
doves burst upward,
white thoughts refusing to be owned.
And I—
I am left
with an emptied court,
bare as first breath,
bare as the moment
before desire learns its name.
Tell me—
what will you place here now,
where nothing can be hidden?
Back to Work
Mei strutted right back to her desk,
Her energy oddly grotesque.
With a sigh and a smirk,
She dove into work—
Declaring, “Let’s make this chaos majestic.”
Palm and Pulse
This morning enters soft with lifted hands,
a hush of leaves against the city’s breath;
the quiet tremor no one understands
that walks beside all praise and leans toward death.
I stand among the voices, warm and near,
yet feel the distance threading through the light—
a knowing brushed against the edge of fear,
a sweetness veiled, already tasting night.
They lay their garments down for love to pass,
each step a promise no one dares to hold;
I trace the shadow slipping through the glass,
where fire begins its slow, appointed fold.
So let me praise with lips that almost break—
for every crown, a silence left to take.
Song of the Sea
Waves keep their counsel, low and deep,
They rise like breath you learn to keep;
A hush between each undertow
Where hidden currents come and go.
Salt on the tongue of moonlit air,
A silver thread in dark laid bare;
The shore repeats what tides confide,
Then takes it back on every side.
I stand where foam forgets my name,
Yet every crest returns the same;
A pulse that writes across the dark
Then erases each arriving mark.
No final word, no settled place,
Only the drift of time and trace;
And in the turning of the tide,
I learn to leave what I can’t guide.
Second Epistle to Jokerman
You preach in parables, wink at the flock,
Salt on your tongue, blood on the clock,
Silver-tongued psalms with a jester’s seal,
You quote the Book but you dodge the seal.
You walk like Elijah, speak like a thief,
Fire in words, no altar beneath,
You sell the desert as promised land,
Moses’ staff in a gambler’s hand.
You say all is written, dust to dust,
Yet you keep your coin in the purse of trust,
You bend the law till it learns your name,
Call mercy a loophole, faith a game.
You dine with angels, deal with goats,
Float your truth on half-said notes,
Every cross is a clever sign
Till it’s time to bleed instead of rhyme.
You speak of scales, of right and wrong,
As if judgment were just another song,
But someone’s child gets laid in the sand
While you wash your hands like a righteous man.
You mock the crown, you mock the nail,
Say resurrection is a tall tale,
Yet you keep one eye on the empty tomb
Like you fear the stone might move too soon.
I’ve read the fire, I’ve read the flood,
I know false prophets dress well in mud,
They quote Isaiah, they laugh at Job,
Say suffering proves the world is a joke.
But I don’t need riddles wrapped in grace,
Nor truth that won’t show its face,
I choose the weight of a spoken yes
Over a god who dodges flesh.
So keep your visions, sharp and sly,
Your heaven measured with a liar’s eye,
When the trumpet sounds and the masks all fall,
I’ll stand unhidden, answer the call.
You can keep your name, Jokerman,
Your sideways throne, your shifting sand—
I’ve learned the cost of borrowed light
And I walk awake into the night.
A Weekend in Nature
The morn breaks saft ower field and glen,
Wi’ licht that stirs the heart again.
The breeze comes clean, the day feels wide—
A freedom rinnin’ at yer side.
The burn sings low by mossy stane,
Its waters clear as April rain.
Ye wander slow, nae rush, nae care—
Just breathin’ in the open air.
The hills rise heich wi’ timeless grace,
A stillness haudin’ every place.
Ye sit and watch the shadows glide—
The world at peace, the soul untied.
Vairë the Weaver
Within the Halls where silent ages sleep,
She threads the breath of moments into form.
Her looms are shadows where the memories keep
Their embered glow through ruin, birth, and storm.
Each strand is time made visible and thin,
A whisper caught before it fades to air.
She binds the deeds of kingdoms, kin, and kin,
In tapestries no mortal hand could bear.
When Míriel came, unbodied, pale with grief,
Vairë received her with a patient grace.
Together they inscribed each joy and brief
Sorrow of Finwë’s house in ordered space.
So through her webs the world remembers all—
The rise, the fall, the footsteps faint and small.
週五嚟近啲
|
週五嚟喇 |
Friday’s here— |
First Fire, Soft Return
The first fire of spring does not ask—
it laughs.
Smoke lifts like a soft-spoken promise,
threading through branches still unsure of green,
carrying the scent of something waking—
fat, spice, and sun remembered.
Hands gather without ceremony,
sleeves rolled, voices loose,
someone always turning too soon,
someone always saying leave it, leave it—
as if patience could be grilled into us.
Meat sings on iron,
a bright, reckless music—
little bursts of flame licking upward
like they’ve missed us.
And we—
we stand closer than needed,
warmth on our faces,
eyes half-closed not from smoke
but from that quiet, rising ease
of being here again.
A breeze passes, playful,
tugging at hair, at laughter,
at the thin paper plates trembling in our hands—
as if spring itself
were leaning in to taste.
Nothing grand is spoken.
No vows, no declarations.
Only this—
the shared breaking of bread,
the soft grease on fingertips,
the low hum of contentment
settling into bone.
And somewhere between flame and laughter,
winter finally lets go.
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