I am not Her

you would see some trapped undefined grief in her eyes, they used to show anger, that she can play swing with, her armor. But as she keeps feeding her soul with the wisdom brought by the wind and time nurture her growth, she started to be able to recognize what sad is. Then she found that its harder to play swing with sadness rather than anger. Her heart become softer, but she doesnt like it, she wants to hate and mad and angry, but she can no longer.

She loves the serene sound of the dance of the sand and current under the water when she floats, and she always wish she could just dissolve within the ocean behind the line where the sun meets the ocean. She feels a strong longing toward the moon, “its like my home is calling” she would say.

She tried to speak her feelings out once, but people sneer, people go away. So she learned to bury, keep everything behind her laughter, her eyes can pretend to glow with cheerfulness. She become, oh so loveable! If only they know how hard she struggles to be so, carrying the battle she doesn’t understand, shut off the noises, kill the sensitivity, not  to be…different.

But things unfold itself right before her eyes, she enjoys how truth; the one thing she remembered ever wished for so deeply; float and amuse her sometimes. It makes her feels like she owns a magic wand, she just cling it on the air, then its only a matter of time, things she’s feeling is happening taking shape.

Speed and height calm her down, musing occupies her life, not living by the book is her guide, gravity is her prime enemy, stupidity makes her clutch her fist, being human is her eternal struggle.

Ah well! that’s her, that i am not;

that woman

with the dragonfly on her shoulder


Trees are like sanctuaries (by Herman Hesse)

For me, trees have always been the most penetrating preachers. I revere them when they live in tribes and families, in forests and groves. And even more I revere them when they stand alone. They are like lonely persons. Not like hermits who have stolen away out of some weakness, but like great, solitary men, like Beethoven and Nietzsche. In their highest boughs the world rustles, their roots rest in infinity; but they do not lose themselves there, they struggle with all the force of their lives for one thing only: to fulfil themselves according to their own laws, to build up their own form, to represent themselves. Nothing is holier, nothing is more exemplary than a beautiful, strong tree. When a tree is cut down and reveals its naked death-wound to the sun, one can read its whole history in the luminous, inscribed disk of its trunk: in the rings of its years, its scars, all the struggle, all the suffering, all the sickness, all the happiness and prosperity stand truly written, the narrow years and the luxurious years, the attacks withstood, the storms endured. And every young farmboy knows that the hardest and noblest wood has the narrowest rings, that high on the mountains and in continuing danger the most indestructible, the strongest, the ideal trees grow.

Trees are sanctuaries. Whoever knows how to speak to them, whoever knows how to listen to them, can learn the truth. They do not preach learning and precepts, they preach, undeterred by particulars, the ancient law of life.

A tree says: A kernel is hidden in me, a spark, a thought, I am life from eternal life. The attempt and the risk that the eternal mother took with me is unique, unique the form and veins of my skin, unique the smallest play of leaves in my branches and the smallest scar on my bark. I was made to form and reveal the eternal in my smallest special detail.

A tree says: My strength is trust. I know nothing about my fathers, I know nothing about the thousand children that every year spring out of me. I live out the secret of my seed to the very end, and I care for nothing else. I trust that God is in me. I trust that my labor is holy. Out of this trust I live.

When we are stricken and cannot bear our lives any longer, then a tree has something to say to us: Be still! Be still! Look at me! Life is not easy, life is not difficult. Those are childish thoughts. Let God speak within you, and your thoughts will grow silent. You are anxious because your path leads away from mother and home. But every step and every day lead you back again to the mother. Home is neither here nor there. Home is within you, or home is nowhere at all.

A longing to wander tears my heart when I hear trees rustling in the wind at evening. If one listens to them silently for a long time, this longing reveals its kernel, its meaning. It is not so much a matter of escaping from one’s suffering, though it may seem to be so. It is a longing for home, for a memory of the mother, for new metaphors for life. It leads home. Every path leads homeward, every step is birth, every step is death, every grave is mother.

So the tree rustles in the evening, when we stand uneasy before our own childish thoughts: Trees have long thoughts, long-breathing and restful, just as they have longer lives than ours. They are wiser than we are, as long as we do not listen to them. But when we have learned how to listen to trees, then the brevity and the quickness and the childlike hastiness of our thoughts achieve an incomparable joy. Whoever has learned how to listen to trees no longer wants to be a tree. He wants to be nothing except what he is. That is home. That is happiness.



how can i write when every character simply disappear on the tip of my pen?

when words have their own will and keep denying my command?

i wanted to write “nothing”, but it deformed it self into a whole story of meanings, as if saying “this is what you do want to write”, yet my pen refused to catch up.

it scares me, when i just started with a dot, then it found its own strength to grow into a dragonfly and flipping around in my head, or

many times its just stuck and stay as a forever dot.

i want to stop the words from floating away,

and build a dam to contain them, but it scares me even more

as i know, once the dam is broken i would drown into my river words

that i have to fight my way up to surface and not to get dragged

so, how can i write? it starts to grow pain in my chest

(his) Dance & Write

He dances with her when
he is writing poems
on his rainbow
her happy feet bounce
bounce beaming out
colours to
cross the safe sky
all the angels and
wandering souls to come
on him to
join to
dance po
in mo

Tap tap a b c d
the most beautiful words
grow like flowers
intimate lines rise like
soft rockets suddenly
between her feet
skipping into a
happy beat
bouncing hurling out
songs of love and care
off the rainbow floor
travelling away on wings of
drangonflies through the air

He loves to dance with her
he just can’t
get enough
of the poetic voice of angels while
with her happy fiery feet
she lights his soul for
the firecracker finales
dancing wild and wilder
spraying orange
rapt into red

He wants to dance
again write until
her words
her rhythm
blow him off
the rainbow
send him flying
caught by her
safe landing
asleep in
a happy cloud
at her feet