Demigods and Poets

Nectar of the sweetest flower,
we are sick with envy
at your scent that won’t be writ.
One taste of your perfection,
perhaps a tiny sip, less
than a humming bird would take.

Dark abyss, deep, deep
beyond the depths the mortal mind
conceives, embrace us
with your emptiness, that true
dismay of utter night where omens
overtake sight’s sense.

Pan, play your pastoral flute.
Let the music make us mist
that merges with the universe
until the echo fades
and we are invisible
except for that inner light.

Demigods and poets,
hungry beings, hard angled
and indignant, craving
transformation just once
back to the tree
from whence the lumber came.

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The Yin and Yang of Li Young Lee

                   Everything I write, I hate a week later,
                      I hate the poems I’m working on too.
                                                          Li Young Lee
                                               in The Language of Life by Bill Moyers  

You might think he’d be self-satisfied
being a right famous poet
with a gangster for a grandfather
and his mother royalty.

With celebrity status well earned
he is a citizen of Earth,
born in Indonesia
he proudly claims to be Chinese.

He says his people
were persecuted in Jakarta,
so that might be the reason
he’s living in Chicago.

Once his family lived in Pittsburgh,
his father studied theology,
got his degree and ministered
in the local Presbytery.

Li Young says that sometimes
he feels disconnected
from it all, except, he said,
the bible.

He went on to say
that the act of writing a poem
is a supplication
in a sense

He says
he hates what he writes
because none of it even comes close
to Ecclesiastes.

Summer Storm

A felonious aberration,
that soft pink sky turned red
with morning,
the innocent flowering
of dawn gave little warning.

A disingenuous incantation
that first faint rumble of thunder,
the distant streaks of lightning,
stagnant breath like some malingering
snake oil salesman

hovering, hulking,
lugubrious in the July noon.
Then that cold air,
austere, bereft,
invading the atmosphere.

The warring gods attack,
obtuse and cruel they duke it out.
Beguiled by early morning’s smile
we hunker now, waiting
for the storm to end.