I woke up in the darkest dawn
And found it was not Christmas.
The boxes were all gaily torn
And colors hid in darkness.
A street child’s Christmas
Memories of the monsoon trail
we sang on trails then
our throats were quenched by rains.
climbed cattle fences, i recall
i caught your fall, your pain remains.
we danced on bridges,
and struck the moon at midnight.
we starved on hikes, you held my hand
and we survived on starlight.
Licuan, Abra
April 25, 2008
(with revisions October 29, 2013)
A rice paper poem
sky god dips his brush ever so lightly
into silky clouds, floating softly down
wispy watercolor washes of China gray.
mountain goddess swirls her hair of black
dancing on scrolls and scrolls of rice paper poems
inside my head, such inscrutable calligraphy.