Sunday, October 19, 2014

The Mysterious Incident of Salmon during Autumn-time

October, Annual Sockeye Salmon Run, Adam's River, BC Canada 

This river is our primal mother
She beckons to us every year to spawn 
from Pacific Ocean, we hear her call like no other

We swim upstream against the swift waters
circling mountains to age-old forests drawn
by this river, she is our primal mother

Here, the mule deers & black bears wander 
Here, bald eagles & ospreys fly high, we return
from Pacific Ocean, we hear her call like no other

Coloring our skin red & roboust as summer
Into her arms, we lay down our heads come dawn
This river is our primal mother

She, who nourishes our offspring under
wise eyes of cottonwood trees.  She, whom we lean on-
from Pacific Ocean, we hear her call like no other

Gathered in one kinship, my brothers & sisters
hear the same natal beat pushing us on 
To this river, our primal mother
from Pacific Ocean, we hear her call like no other

The Adams River run occurs every year, but every fourth year (called a "dominant" year), the numbers are much higher. 2010 was the most recent dominant run. According to Canada's Department of Fisheries and Oceans, the Fraser River sockeye run of 2010 was the largest since 1913, numbering an estimated 34 million fish.

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Mini-Challenge by Kerry - In other words
and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~ 

Photo credit:   here

Thursday, October 16, 2014

Sun, moon

Sun Photography by Alan Friedman


Star, you're the faithful one
stirring our eyes to fire
shaping seeds to ripe fruits.
Speak to us as a sage: 
steadfast, calm, so we may
swaddle your heat through each
sky storm splitting the land


Moon Photography by Alan Friedman


Moon, cast your magic spell-
moonshine above the trees
milk pearled, dreamt  by poets
marveling you. Some nights 
myth turns you to a monk
meandering the space 
muting the sky, stone grey.    

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Pleiades - Thanks to Vandana Sharma for guest hosting ~

Thursday, October 9, 2014

Doodling with words

I doodle on edge of the noodle.   
A flower wears power then snitches on the boy.
The boy walks on paper hat, itchy as a tart.   
Where the clouds slips, I also lip sing aloud.
Latin in Manhattan, English is ticklish, like licorice. 
Maybe I should be eating a strudel instead.
Or canoodling with the whole caboodle. 

Instead I doodle oodles of wiggly lines
Curvy lines, vines, pines and nines
In the center is the sea of peas
Rushing, thrashing, blushing blue
Suffocating the dark is a spark
Grass grows underneath my teeth
Wheat is whey, milk is silky
Playing with words is swaying with birds.   

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub - Hosted by Bjorn Rudberg ~  A poem with no meaning but relies on sounds.

Picture credit:   here

Wednesday, October 8, 2014

If I were

If I were a word, I'll be always at the tip of your tongue

Warm as ripe red plums
On autumn season

Or perhaps melting ice cube
On summer night

If I were a word, I'll keep your memories as keys

Blazing as flames
On long cold winters

There will be no betrayals
As every seed will rise on first day of spring

If I were a word, I'll map the flight of geese & butterflies

Turning out of sight
To where the sun rides a unicycle over the blue ocean

If I were a word, I will boldly travel with my eyes closed
Forget gravity, fear & making mistakes

Listen to chatter of hummingbirds 
Billow where the wind goes

Towards you
Of infinite possibilities

Posted for:   Poetry Jam - If I Were
and Poets United Mid Week Motif - Exploring

Saturday, October 4, 2014

October rust

I am restless tonight while shadows are obsessed with shape of the lamp.

The moon wears raven mask and comes into my room with glass of water.

She sits and reads the book while 
I bury my emptiness in a lacquered box.

Language arrives with new set of colours - wheat, rust and nest of bones.  

Posted for Imaginary Garden with Real Toads - 55 Words
and Poets United - Thanks for the visit ~

Friday, October 3, 2014

Shadows & light in the deepest cave

layer upon layer 
pearls grow white-cancer
boning every space
left empty by sea, and you

here, my words are granite


what the light touches
what the soil breathes under cave
become seed, forest
greening grey stones, every hurts-

here, my heart is a bird song

Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Hannah's Challenge

Saturday, September 27, 2014

in midst of autumn

when maple trees catch fire
so do my words conspire
to gather as grey crows
piercing dry sky in throes

why are lands snarled at war
when none can square the score
as more heads will rot, roll
i wear black gown for fall

my hand holds a feather
soft, when sewn together
can be blue shawl of peace
when will we learn to cease

using faith as charade
as each leaf turns red jade

Wild Birds Burning
Photography by Brooke Shaden

Posted for OpenlinkNight of D'verse Poets Pub - Thanks for the visit ~

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

From ashes to bones

Time slips between the stones
& falls on the water

My lungs are drowning in salt
I offer no resistance to lack of air

I am so tired of fighting
for every breath, for every fitful sleep

Death sits on my chest
with tyrant coat, ever a watchman without a name

What coins can I give to him
when I think nothing of myself, a mere shadow 

that wants to vanish & hide
beneath the deep tunnels of the sea 

But somewhere your hands
come in a burst of light

Is this a dream?
Your stranger eyes are kind

As if you understand my pain & shame
You lift me up on your shoulders

and say my scars are worthy
of a warrior

Do I have wings?
The air pounds of energy, I am drawing

a phoenix in bright colors
The sun is my birthright

Under which I will build my ark 
with my other sisters 

I will be the language of my making
From ashes, I write my name anew:

life-giver, protector of children:


Posted for the D'verse Poets Pub- Passion of Brooke Shaden - We are getting inspiration from photography and inspiring words of Brooke Shaden.   Cheers to all the women who rise above abuse, injustice and discrimination and have been victims of human trafficking. Also my admiration goes to everyone who give women a chance to gain their own dignity & independence.   

Tuesday, September 16, 2014

Travelling between cities


Sounds from mosque at dawn wakes me up.
It is the first of the five prayer times dividing time
into tidy rooms filled with mats, bodies 
kneeling, prostrating facing Mecca, the holy city.

     as sun circles the sky,
     i marvel at different face
     of God 


Here, mountains frame the city in blue
Here, deep ocean crush shells to fine sand 
Here, forest park cradles ancient totems  

    to highest valley
    i soar with wind, content 
    with my eagle's wings 


Your skin is musky earth
In your native language
Even saying good morning 
Sounds like an invitation 
To go somewhere & everywhere

       my tongue rolls new words 
           no, not melted butter 
           but spice, flaming my guts- 


I saw the biggest waterfall
its mouth, a womb of life 
I gazed at fabled city steeped
in 18th century stories
travel to know the history
of my new country - 

          still, my luggage is filled 
         with jasmine leis and one map-

If I have a boat, I will sail to you
Photography:   Joel Robison

Posted for D'verse Poets Pub -  We are talking about travel poetry~  Hosted by Gabriella ~

Saturday, September 13, 2014

1 September 1983

sky is a fuse
after long funeral march
from dawn to night

i didn't see the flag-draped coffin
only sea of sun-burnt faces
2 million crowding the narrow streets
to give homage to the fallen man-

his clothes still bloodied
his face unclean from gunshot
that spilled his guts on airport tarmac

i learned for the first time
that a country was worth dying for
that a murdered man can change the course of history

unbroken for 20 years
martial law by a strongman & his family
living in palatial homes when more than 
half of the nation squatted by dirty rivers-

too soon,
hush of the night is over,
sun is brittle egg yoke
rising above smog, burning our weary eyes 

i asked my parents what's coming-
they said,
change, the hopeful winds 
of change

the radio crackles with a voice-
its the only radio station fearlessly
reporting the real news-

we take a deep breath
& wait-


Posted for Imaginary Garden for Real Toads - Sunday's Mini-Challenge:  September Sky
& Artistic Interpretations with Margaret - Mineral Rainbow
& Poets United

My reflections after the assassination of Senator Benigno Acquino in August 21, 1983, which triggered the downfall of the dictatorship of President Marcos, Philippines.   I recall the long funeral march on August 31, and afterwards the changes that slowly came - protest marches, election struggle, civilian heroism versus the military-backed dictatorship.

Yellow was the color of protest (from a homecoming color) in those times.