Bridge~Owner

METAMORPHOSIS

2012-01-24T18:06:00.000-08:00

I stand,

facing the wooden trays,

picking

letter by leadenletter,

molding them into

the word.

I arrange the words,

side by side,

into the line,

encased in leadblocks.

I build the lines,

one by one,

into the stanza,

into the poem--

becoming alive

inside the chase,

enclosed

by wooden

and leaden

furniture,

held fast

by quoins

and key.

I place the chase

into the cradle

of the platen press,

apply the ink

onto the plate,

that transfers

onto the rollers,

onto the letters, the words, the lines,
the poem.

The press rotates,

the poem flies

onto paper,

into minds,

into air,

becomes

ephemeral.

I take out the chase,

insert the key,

release the quoins,

remove the furniture,

return the lines,

the words,

the letters

back into

the wooden boxes.

Until the next time

when they’re needed

to be molded

into the new

poem.

THE DREAM

2012-01-06T15:07:00.000-08:00

This is the dream:

You are driving the open highway,

Bound for the harbor to meet friends,

Discuss adventures, share discoveries.

You see a shining house

Sitting like an eagle eyrie

On the mountain to the west.

You dream that someday

You’ll sit in that living room

Watching the world flow by.

There is another dream:

You are sitting in the living room of the eyrie,
Looking out the picture window,

Watching the world flow by.

You dream that someday

You’ll travel that open highway,

Bound for the harbor to meet friends,

Discuss adventures, share discoveries.

The Last Sky

2011-12-01T17:14:00.001-08:00

The fall of Long Cheng (Sky Base), 1975

Twenty thousand

pairs of eyes

scan the sky

for signs

of lifeboats—C-130s

to rescue us

from our

Clear Valley, our last fortress

that has become

our valley of deathtrap:

enemy columns surround

the hills,

enemy tanks blockade

the roads,

slowly
moving in

to kill.

Finally,

three C-130s arrive

like a wing

of birds—three brighteagles

landing, rolling

in a line

down the runway.

The crowd parts

and reforms

like waves
around a ship
at sea, scrambling

into

the cargo holds.

Families

try

to stay

together,

but wives

separated

from
husbands,
children

from

grandparents.

The cargo holds
quickly
filled,
the ramps

start

to rise.

People fall

in clumps

to the hard

asphalt.

An infantry

major grabs

his oldest

son,
boosting

him

into the last gap

of the closing

ramp.

The birds

turn,

roll
down

the runway
of Sky Base
for the last
time,

lift,

and lumber

into

the last

Sky.

The Good Sister

2011-11-20T23:31:00.001-08:00

Oh how good she was

with other people’s children.

She taught kindergarten;

and year after year,

Hmong parents brought her

their hesitant children

to be introduced

into the American system.

She taught them in Hmong

and English, even some
Spanish, easing them

into the complex world.

She started out young, married

to her widowed brother-in-law,

when her sister died

from a botched operation.

Her nieces and nephews

became her sons and daughters.

But her husband eloped

with some closely related woman.

And she was left

with an empty house

and a roomful of children

in her kindergarten.

Word of mouth spread

of the good teacher.

And year after year,

we crossed school boundaries,

lied about our incomes

so we could bring our children

to this good sister

to ease into a new life.

Years after our children had moved
into the upper grades,

we would hear from her,

when some other parent passed

a hello from the teacher:

she wanted us to know

she was doing well, had found a man

who loved her,

and was married.

Then we heard she was ill,

dying from cancer.

We planned to go see her

but never had the time.

And when she died,

we said: Oh how good she was

with our children.

Love & War

2011-11-20T23:08:00.001-08:00

Long Cheng, 1972

Midnight,

The general paces

The corridors

Of his Motel 6-

Like compound,

Waiting to see

Which wife’s door

Would open,

Which hilltop

Would erupt

So he can scramble

The Ravens,

Call for the Sabres,
Send in
The Chinooks.

To Live Here

2011-11-11T23:53:00.001-08:00

Oakland, California

To live here
Among these skyrises

& screeching cars,

These crowded lanes

& sculpted parks,

You must take air,

And taking air commits

You to sharing it:

With the Korean woman

& her Sikh boyfriend

Enjoying a profusion of dishes

At Jonga House;

With the African-American man

& his Chinese wife

Walking protectively around her parents

Along Grand Avenue;

With the bi-racial girl
& her polyethnic friends
Offering you their
Unneeded bus transfers;

With the ducks
& the geese
Floating gently in a line
Across Lake Merritt;

With the sturgeons
& the stripers
Living in dark waters under the fishing pier

Jutting from the embarcadero

On which is attached a sign

Warning of health risks

In six foreign
Languages.

“To live here one must take air, but taking air commits you to sharing it…”

~ Robert Bly

Late August Day at Mauna Kea Beach

2011-11-06T09:47:00.000-08:00

(prose form)

Perfect morning: sugary sand, sparse crowd, warm sun.

Inafternoon, grow restless, leave the wife slumbering, take the trail at the southern end, acrossrugged headland of sharp volcanic lava. Meet two old men carefully negotiatingtrail, one who obviously had suffered a stroke--right leg stiff, right hand clutchesclose to chest. Make way for them, and ask how far still to go. “You’re abouthalf way there,” they say.

Farther, come across a site of old native settlement:house foundations, stone rings for cooking. Encroaching, just yards up theslope, villas with red-tile roofs and horizontal pools--the kind that blendswith sea and sky when one looks from the porch.

In the little rocky inlets, seaturtles glide, almost flying, in their element, elemental; their cold-bloodedbodies cradled in the currents of the warm blue sea. They worry not about lost civilizations, currentoccupations, the end of worlds. They are living.

(poetry form)

Perfect morning:
sugary sand, sparse crowd, warm sun.

Inafternoon, grow restless, leave the wife
slumbering, take the trail at southern end,
acrossrugged headland of sharp volcanic lava.

Meet two old men carefully negotiatingtrail,
one who obviously had suffered a stroke--
right leg stiff, right hand clutchesclose to chest.
Make way for them, and ask how far still to go.
“You’re abouthalf way there,” they say.

Farther, come across a site of old native settlement:
house foundations, stone rings for cooking. Encroaching,
just yards up theslope, villas with red-tile roofs
and horizontal pools--the kind that blendswith sea and sky
when one looks from the porch.

In the little rocky inlets, seaturtles glide, almost flying,
in their element, elemental; their cold-bloodedbodies cradled
in the currents of the warm blue sea. They worry not
about lost civilizations,
currentoccupations,
the end of worlds.

~after Robert Bly

Seeing My Old Teacher Again After Many Years

2011-10-30T21:34:00.001-07:00

~for Dr. Zumwalt

I did not know that my way out of that canyon would befilled with so many twists and turns. So I left him standing there at the endof his gravel drive and drove away with a light heart, promising I wouldsoon return to spend another day helping him at his press: setting types and printingpages painstakingly the old-fashioned way, sharing a simple lunch of soupsimmering in the crockpot, reminiscing about his experience as a young pilot in thewaning days of World War II in Italy.

I drove out of the canyon on a road that wounded alongriver bottoms, through foothills covered in dry scrub oaks and brittle pines, across a littlestone bridge arching over a clear stream…and never returned.

Now, after these many years, he has come all the way fromhis home in the Sierra Nevada foothills to hear me read my poetry. “He heard you would bereading. He wanted to come and see you,” his wife says. I look at my oldteacher: His proud yellow mane turned patchy white, shoulders more stooped, alittle bit hard of hearing. But the gleam in his eyes and his gap-toothed smile are still the same--laughing at himself and at the world, as if he has already found most of thesecrets of life, and finds them amusing.

“I have thought about you,” he chides me.

“And I have thought about you,” I reply.

Visiting My Uncle in the Sierra Nevada Foothills

2011-10-27T09:05:00.000-07:00

Here, in these misty folds of hills, you have rested
for thesefifteen years. How lonely it must be

to be so out of the way. Your sons and daughters

have all moved away, and only visit every fewyears

when there’s anotherfuneral in town. The road here
twists and turns, and it’sa wonder I still remember

the way to this hidden place. This year, your last brother

have passed through, so you four brothers

must be together and are ready to move on,
so I'll say my goodbye.

There is not a sound, not a sight of a livingthing,

except for a scrub jay pointing me on my way.

~after Du Fu

Yearning

2011-10-27T08:42:00.000-07:00

Two clocks beating pointand counterpoint

Echo through the emptyhallways. The fridge

Softly hums to herselfin the kitchen corner.

On the breakfast bar, agrand fall bouquet—

Sunflowers, carnations, snap dragons,

Roses-- slowly wither away.

Outside the bay window,the dew-dappled

Lawns linedwith perfect rows of palms

Slowly warm tothe rising sun.

Still, how I long to see the wild palms
In their wildabandonment,

To see coconuts andfronds fall

And scatter to the wildwinds,

To see them washed to the ocean

To meet the wild waves.

Bad Epitaphs

2011-10-27T08:31:00.001-07:00

“The afternoon you left

Sunlight embraced rain.

A rainbow was born,”

I wrote on the door

Of your new home,

Father, as I left youhere

At Mountainview—

An homage to you,

And a display

Of my budding poeticskills.

How was I to know

That I would start

A ten-year trend

Of bad poetry?

Now when I visit,

Your neighbors havepoetry

All over their walls,

In clear imitation ofyou.

And not to speak ill

Of the dead, but

They are just horrible.

I mean, I’m not looking

For rhyme schemes, but

There’s no imagery,

No metaphors,

No music, and too much

Information (TMI!).

Still, I guess

Bad poetry is better

Than no poetry

At all.

Suburban Sounds

2011-10-25T21:21:00.000-07:00

Traffic beyond the blockfence

Dwindles to a soft rumble.

Suddenly, the swishingsound

Of a weed-eater cutting

Through weed and grass

Announces the arrival ofan army

Of gardeners to the suburbs.

Then the sound oflawnmowers--

Loud as helicopter rotors--

Circle the wide yards.

Just as suddenly, allsounds stop--

Only the soft rumble remains.

Minutes later, the next street over,

The swishing starts again.

Then the blades resume,

All around the compass.

Tuesday Morning

2011-10-25T08:28:00.001-07:00

The house quiets down,

The only sound a soft ticking clock.

After a two-hour dash—

Driving each girl to morning class

Awaking, washing,

Dressing both boys

Feeding them meager breakfasts

Of toast and milk

Rushing each up the steps

Of his yellow school bus—

Time finally slows

For me to sit at the breakfast bar.

Opening my dog-eared book,

I begin to read Du Fu.

Book Launch!

2011-10-12T23:13:00.000-07:00

Cloud of Words

2011-09-17T21:11:00.001-07:00

Approaching San Francisco

2011-07-18T09:03:00.001-07:00

A full moon shines
Over a city of embers.

A lighted bridge floats
Like a silver ribbon

Over the ink-dark bay.
Planes descend and lift off

Like a scattering
Of fireflies.

Miracles

2011-07-14T20:02:00.001-07:00

Who knows what miracles are
Any more? Not me,

Who has grown tired
Of the details

Of a jaded life.
Traveling to the funeral

Of my uncle, waiting
For a flight long delayed.

Sun setting over tower,
Planes queuing on runway

Straining for unknown destinations.
I remember the long walks

Through half empty airports.
No one to say goodbye to;

No one to say hello.
And I know:

My life now
Is miracle.

-after Whitman

Spring, 2011

2011-02-24T13:40:00.001-08:00

(after the passing of General Vang Pao)

We wake from the winter
Of our grief

To find spring arrived
And settled

New vines and leaves sprout
From grape spurs

Poppies quilt hillsides
In bright patches

Peach and pear trees full
Of sudden blossoms

Mantles of oranges reduced
To a few studious fruits

The dead sequoia is gone--
Sawed and uprooted

The earth raked smooth
As if nothing had ever been there.

General Vang Pao: Dedicate My Life to the Hmong

2010-12-26T10:55:00.001-08:00

Dedicate My Life to The Hmong

The year 1941 was a year of heavy frost, resulting in meager harvest in Xiengkhoung Province, Laos. A White Hmong boy had taken his precious black gelding on a day’s journey from his village to the tojxeem to pay a debt that his family owed. There, at the tojxeem’s house, he saw many other Hmong that had also come to pay their taxes. The boy saw “an elderly Green Hmong couple who couldn’t pay their tax…they didn’t have enough, they also brought a pig.” The tojxeem told them it still wasn’t enough; they had to go home and bring more.

The boy’s eyes filled with tears. He thought to himself: I also have the fortune to be born a Hmong; I am already thirteen years old. I will take time to think hard to see what I can do for the Hmong, so that the Hmong can escape this burden.

“That was what made me instantly decide to dedicate my life to the Hmong,” says General Vang Pao.

Looking for Ways to Advance the Hmong

Returning from the tojxeem, the young Vang Pao began to see Hmong fracturing and suffering with new eyes. “The Hmong had always been refugees, fleeing their homelands. They broke into small groups,” says Gen. Vang Pao. “And one group settled on this mountain, another in that valley. They faced many hardships. They didn’t even have salt to eat.”

The young Vang Pao set out to make changes. “Returning from that experience, I set out to gain an education. I also accepted the responsibility of helping the Hmong. Whatever ways we would gain knowledge and wisdom; whatever ways we would gain self-sufficiency, shelter, wealth, position, good reputation; I sought those ways for the Hmong to follow.”

After three years of school, he started as a translator and messenger for the French, to “help fellow Hmong citizens.” A few years later, he earned a position in the Lao Gendarmerie, a paramilitary force commanded by French officers. “I earned first place in corporal course; and first place in sergeant course. After that, I worked for three-four years,” he recalls. He proved himself to be an exceptional soldier and leader, rising to the rank of sergeant-major.

“After that I went to Officer Candidate School (OCS).” He successfully graduated from OCS to become the first Hmong officer in the Royal Lao Army (RLA). His success opened up an avenue for other Hmong to advance in the military--an important social improvement for the Hmong.

Hmong Achievements in Laos

Gen. Vang Pao says that one of the first Hmong achievements in Laos was being “able to protect the country.” In 1962, Colonel Vang Pao was promoted to General and given responsibility over Military Region II (MR II) whose numbers were close to 140,000 soldiers. Most of these soldiers were home militias, but he had an elite core of 12,000 Special Guerrilla Unit (SGU) soldiers and 4,000 RLA soldiers. With the formation of the Hmong SGU army, many Hmong officers advanced into command and leadership positions of the regiments and battalions. Other Hmong filled important roles such as fighter pilots or interpreters and liaisons with the American advisors and trainers.

MR II soldiers engaged the vastly more numerous Pathet Lao and North Vietnamese Army units throughout northeastern Laos, but “the biggest battle for Laos was at Thong Hai Hin, the plain northeast of Long Cheng,” recalls Gen. Vang Pao. It was a fifteen-year stalemate where “you captured this place, and then the enemy would come and capture that other place; always pushing at each other.” Finally, “in the year ’70, I decided to capture and hold Thong Hai Hin. So in ’70 we captured it, ’71 we held it, then it was lost in the year ’72.”

The second achievement of the Hmong in Laos was “the way in which the Hmong were educated and given wisdom; taught skills and knowledge; taught self-sufficiency,” says Gen. Vang Pao.

With the new army, Gen. Vang Pao needed a new headquarters base. He decided on a valley called Long Cheng. “The main reason for the success was Long Cheng. It was a narrow valley…and the roads approaching it were few, so I decided to relocate [headquarters] to Long Cheng…so that is wasn’t easily accessible, and hard for Nyab Laj to approach.”

In addition to being a military base, Long Cheng was also a cultural, economic, and educational base. “The reason Hmong had a future was because of Long Cheng. Schools, hospitals, trades, all manner of [Hmong] skills and knowledge originated from there,” says Gen. Vang Pao.

Laying a Foundation for Hmong Success in the United States

In 1975, when Laos was lost to the Communists and Gen. Vang Pao first arrived in the U. S., he felt that his first duty was to try to protect his people, so he went to meet President Gerald R. Ford, who had just assumed the presidency after President Richard Nixon resigned, and asked for asylum for the Hmong. “President Ford didn’t acknowledge the Hmong and Laotians; he only acknowledged Cambodians and [South] Vietnamese,” he recalls. “I wasn’t satisfied, so I said [to Pres. Ford]: the Hmong and Laotians and South Vietnamese and Cambodians sailed the same boat to fight North Vietnam. If you say otherwise, then you are not just. So he said: don’t worry, General, I will direct the State Department to give the Hmong refugee status.”

His next action was to study how other groups of immigrants from Europe, Asia, and Central America had successfully integrated into American society. “I thought carefully; studied other groups of people. What did they do to live successfully in the U.S.? I found that they have non-profits [organizations] to help them,” says Gen. Vang Pao. He wanted to set up programs to help the Hmong adapt: to learn English, to acquire job skills, to access different resources to help them start their new lives here. So he set up the first Hmong non-profit called Lao Family Community in Santa Ana, California. Soon he opened up other branches throughout the U.S. where there were concentrations of Hmong populations.

He started the Hmong Council to bring Hmong people together, to mediate between the 18 clans. Next, he started Lao Veterans to highlight Hmong and Laotian contribution to the Vietnam War, to remind young Hmong as well as Americans of the sacrifice Hmong made. Then he looked back at Laos and saw the oppression that the Hmong left behind in Laos were suffering, and he started Lao Human Rights to speak up for them. Soon, other Hmong non-profits started up and strengthened Hmong communities further. All these organizations have helped the Hmong to adapt and become successful in the U. S.

Looking toward the Future

As Gen. Vang Pao pauses to take stock of the present and ponders the future, he is proud of the Hmong. “The Hmong, whether it’s the pursuit of knowledge, of wealth, of position and power, the Hmong work very hard to achieve them. Everyone is pushing very hard on their own,” he says. “The ones who work on the land work very hard; the ones who work on trade also work very hard; boys and girls who attend school, for the most part, study very hard.”

But no matter how hard we work or how successful we are as individuals, the general says, we won’t be as effective or powerful as a group. To participate effectively in American society, he advises us to come together as a people, not to bargain with politicians, but to effectively focus our concerns, so that “whoever is in charge of government—Democrat or Republican,” will notice us and hear our unified voice.

He advises that, to get along, we Hmong should “be patient, respect each other, don’t poke each other in the eye.” We should “form friendships, don’t exclude one another, don’t be jealous of each other.” We should also take personal responsibility, “don’t abuse drugs, don’t abuse alcohol.”

As a group, says Gen. Vang Pao, we Hmong should come together and try to find workable solutions to four immediate problems: 1). Supporting and strengthening organizations like the Hmong Council and Hmong National Development so they can unify us, 2). Establishing senior homes for the elderly Hmong “so they won’t be so depressed,” 3). Establishing facilities for Hmong funereal rites to cut down the ruinous cost, 4). Streamlining and standardizing Hmong rituals, such as whether to pay “txiv qeej, txiv ruag” or not.

Gen. Vang Pao says, “Right now, power rests with the younger generation.” They are the ones who will unite, inspire, and lead the Hmong in the future. They are the ones who will dedicate their lives to the Hmong.

As for himself, the general feels he has fulfilled the pledge made 67 years ago when he was a thirteen-year-old boy: “My life and my energy, I have absolutely given to the Hmong; 100%!”

Writing on the Wall

2010-12-10T09:05:00.000-08:00

brown uneven letters

unpunctuated sentence

painted on a bare brick wall

next to a weed-strewn lot

who dares to defy

deface such art

that one can understand

in so many ways

Please Stop Painting Our Church. God Is Watching.

Please! Stop Painting Our Church! God Is Watching!

Please? Stop Painting Our Church? God Is Watching?

Please Stop Painting. Our Church-God Is Watching.

Please Stop Painting Our Church. God Is Watching.

Please Stop Painting Your Church. God Is Watching.

First Born

2010-12-07T08:11:00.001-08:00

We once worshiped it
As something mystical:
A unicorn, a dragon,
A phoenix.
Or splurged it
As something renewing:
Water, the seasons,
Earth itself.
Or resented it
As something omnipotent,
Godly.

Now what will we do
With this emaciated child
Lying here between us
That you’ve neglected
And I’ve starved?
If we let it die, who will care
For us
In our old age?

Abandoned Things

2010-12-04T13:19:00.000-08:00

A barn slowly sinking
into itself. A blue mattress
abandoned in a sun-
drenched field slowly curls
into a petal
that contains memories
of passions, of lonely
nights, of nightmarish
sweats, of youthful dreams.
A thousand cigarette butts
dropped by the homeless vet
panhandling at the freeway
exit become the fallen
petals of some strange
poisonous flower. A loveseat
tossed by the roadside
invites tired travelers,
weary lovers to rest
and enjoy the snowcaps
of the Sierra Nevada.
Cows left in a pasture
patiently nibble on green
grass field that turns brown,
then white with frost—wishing
that they are abandoned.

A Report

2010-12-02T09:36:00.001-08:00

A REPORT TO TXIVYAWG (Chiyou)

The Hmong kingdom

shimmers

like a phoenix

above

the Five Lakes.

I arrive on my cloud-and-wind steed

at the Hmong city

with nine towers

and nine gates,

each guarded

by nine sentries

in full battle armour

and horned helmets.

I am led to the great hall

where king Chiyou

sits on his golden throne.

With his long-horned helmet,

his towering height

his booming voice,

he is sometimes mistaken

for a Minotaur.

“Who are you,

Shaman Traveler?

How and where

have you come--

you with the familiar face

in foreign raiment?”

“Your Majesty, I and my eight spirit

guides were borne here

by a spirit wind

from beyond South of the Clouds,

beyond the unknown lands,

beyond the ocean of time.

We arrive through travails,

through trails of tears,

through trials of blood,

along tracks of armies,

along footprints of frightened refugees.

Crossing the Red River,

nine tigers rose out of the ashes

of bomb craters to confront us--

we slew them with our swords.

Crossing the Yellow River,

nine dragons rose from the dust

of a rusty battlefield to devour us--

we pierced them with our spears.

I arrive bearing news

of the Hmong:
You have prepared us well
for the thousand-year battle ahead--
we survive!

Though we were

stamped,

stomped,

smashed,

we didn't die;

we fought

and fled to regroup

to fight again.

We don’t die;

we transform

into spreading colors:

white black

red blue

stripe

We are spreading

onto forests of bamboo,

mountains of teaks,

plains of elephant grass;

And further,

across oceans

into lands of snowy mountains,

burning deserts,

fertile valley basins,

bountiful fruit farms,

giant cities with a thousand towers

reaching for the sky.

I report to Your Majesty that,

like dyes spreading

across raw cloth,

like ink touching water,

we are spreading

across contours

of new landscapes.

Our raiment have changed

colors to blend

into the different lands,

but we are still

your sons

and daughters."

Walking Up and Down the Snowy Hills

2010-11-29T12:18:00.001-08:00

Waking up to the first snow we’ve seen in years,
We take a walk among the undulating hills

Overlooking Phoenix Lake, spreading out
Like a jagged silver star below,

Enjoying the soft crunch of snow underfoot,
Looking at pine branches cradling precious snow.

We touch the snow-dusted fruits of the manzanita,
Taste the tangy berries that look so similar

To the salty txiv faubtxhib we ate on the humid hills
Of far Laos. We wonder:

How does one compare the fruits
Of two such different lands?

Relocating the Landscape

2010-11-29T12:17:00.001-08:00

Out walking last week with my wife,
We saw flatbed trucks and many men
Handling huge trees in front of the neighbor’s
Down the street—one assumed they were
Planting new trees.

This week, walking with my son
In his little green wagon, we saw
That the neighbor is gone—sold
Or foreclosed, moved up
Or scaled down.

The yard is bare, stripped of grass,
only dust and humas ashes remain.
Where mature olive trees
And stately palms were,
Only gaping maws remain.

Oh, how many of us wish
We could also relocate
The beloved landscape?

First Frost

2010-11-29T09:18:00.001-08:00

A layer of white dew—snow’s
poorer cousin—cover the grass.

Vines and leaves dusted white
and burned limp.

Cautious neighbors had covered precious shrubs
in tarps—colorful balloons dotting the lawns.

We bundle in layers of clothing
as we climb into icebox cars

whose glass windows are caked with ice
and have to be rinsed by warm water.

A layer of ice float on puddles
by the road.

Naked grapevines intertwine
like white electrical wires.

Cows patiently nibble grass
in the white fields,

waiting for the raising sun
to thaw the land.

Writing Poetry On The Shore of Phoenix Lake

2010-11-22T13:32:00.000-08:00

Outside, first snow covers undulating hills.

Pines gently receive and cradle manna crystals

In waiting branches and boughs.

Inside, by the warmth of the wood stove,

I orient all my six senses on the rebirths

About to appear in these folds of hills.

First Snow

2010-11-22T13:23:00.000-08:00

Feathery flakes settled so softly

we didn’t realize the world

had changed

while we slept.

In the soft white morning

I ask my roommate:

“Did I snore last night?”

“Yes,” he says in wonder,

looking out the picture

window. “Big

Snow!”

Journey to Phoenix Lake

2010-11-22T13:14:00.001-08:00

Road 59 straightens as it rushes by

small ramshackle houses at the edge of town.

A woman whose face could be my mother’s

tends her roadside garden.

She raises her face from rows

of eggplants and bitter melons

and we look at each other in flashing

surprised recognition.

Past town, the land is flat, the road straight for miles,

before it passes the city landfill with crows circling trash hills.

Then it begins to wind as it crosses

a fold of the Merced River.

To the east, the river curves between hill and field

filled with young trees turning leaves.

To the west, a quarry sits astride the river

as earthmovers and smoke stacks plume afternoon sky.

Few vehicles are on the road

except for gravel trucks hauling the bedrock

of this river to build row houses

for surrounding suburbs.

Occasional upscale houses begin to appear

at the end of shady lanes among orchard fields.

Then the land opens up

and ranch land begins.

Cows clump in fields

as ranch houses and barns sit on rising hills.

Silver windmills dot the landscape;

Water tanks big as trailers draws cattle herds.

Pass a small lake and another fold of the Merced

the land begins to slope.

Hill grass, white as old men's wind-combed hair,

cover the rising land.

Oaks trunks twist and turn out of the earth,

their leaves narrow and brittle,

sucking every drop of moisture

out of the dry earth.

Islands of green grass pool under oaks

like little green oases.

Suddenly, over a rise of the road

trees begin to cover the landscape.

Pine and sequoias toothcomb the crests;

brush fill the undergrowth.

Up ahead, Phoenix Lake

unfolds out of the earth.

Shelter Cove

2010-11-17T15:09:00.002-08:00

As sun descends to meet watery horizon,
its reflection is a shimmering road of gold
bridging the edge of the world
to the hidden cove below.

We stand in a lacquered gazebo
on a cliff isle that is only reached
by an arching stone bridge
that spans an ever-widening breach
created by forces of winds and waves.

The isle has been drifting and falling
from land since before Spaniards
with their missions, before Chumas times,
maybe even before dinosaurs
lived in caverns at the cliff base.

From the cliff-top gazebo, we breathe in
the panorama of the sea scene.
Besides us, the only living things are birds
in their crags, squirrels in their burrows,
and a lone fir tree.

On the tree trunk, someone has left
attached a bouquet of red
and white plastic flowers

in memory of some loved one,
who, by accident
or intent, had slipped
down the sheer cliff
to meet the rocky cove,

in memory of these birds
and squirrels with their brief lives,
in memory of us standing here
who will someday fall
to the cove below
and travel that shimmering road,

in memory of this fir tree
and this cliff isle
that will someday crumble
into the sea,

in memory of this shelter Earth
that someday will be nothing
but a golden shimmer
of dust in this dark universe.

Pismo Beach

2010-11-13T13:31:00.000-08:00

The Shelter Cove Lodge perches
above the white cliffs.

An arching bridge spans the lodge
with a cliff isle

where a lacquered gazebo
opens up the panorama of the sea shore.

Sea birds serenade the rising sun
among their homes of jagged cliffs and flat-table boulders.

To the southeast, Pismo Pier walks
on steely legs into the sea.

The long flat beach invites long white waves
that break in rainbow sprays.

Surfers flock to the waves
like a flock of birds.

Silver-hair surfers, rosy cheek girls,
young men, teen-age boys in their black wetsuits ride the waves.

Among them, a rare Asian man,
surprising as seeing the California eagle.

Journey to the Central Coast

2010-11-13T13:16:00.000-08:00

Starting out late, we face the sunset
as we leave the plain behind.
The road climbs the coastal range,
hugging slopes, snaking between peaks
onto the high moor.

The sky ahead turns
from red, to orange, to indigo,
as we cross York Road,
Almond Road, then Bitterwater Road.
Lights from lonely ranch houses
twinkle in the distances.
Cattle sleep in dark clumps
amidst brown fields.
Road signs warn of high winds
and dust storms.

As the sky darkens to match
the darkling earth, our only guides
are a solid white line to the right
and a broken reflective yellow line
to the left. Our only company,
the haunting melodies of Teresa Teng--
the words we don't understand, but
the music perfectly echoes
the curves of the lonely road.

Cocooned in the cab of the Tundra,
it seems we've been traveling
this dark road forever and are destined
to travel it evermore.
I doze off momentarily, shake
myself awake, and am not sure
if I'm leaving
or returning home.

Rush

2010-11-10T12:43:00.001-08:00

Gray fog rises from gray earth
to touch gray sky

ducks cluster
on misty surface

damp hammock
hangs under droopy willow

nearing 8 a.m., commuters rush
tailing, cutting, honking

any other day, I’d be
rushing along

Today, a calm descends.
“Slow down, people!

We’re all going
the same gray place.”

Hot Dog at Cool Noon

2010-11-09T14:31:00.001-08:00

You are driving through
downtown at lunch hour. Do you
stop and take a walk along
the promenade--twisting walkways
and secluded courtyards? Do you
walk up the steps of the imposing city hall
that resembles a lost starship
just waiting refueling to take off?

You pass Nathan’s Hot Dog stand,
you smell the delicious odors,
your stomach starts to growl, but
you remember you had packed rice
and chicken, back at the office; do you
go back for the hot dog? If you do,
do you choose the hot dog or
the all-beef polish sausage?

Nathan totals your lunch at $4,
you give him a $5; should you
tip him the $1? He offers you
a pack of chips, which you know
you will not eat; do you take it?
As you walk to a courtyard, unwrap
your polish sausage, and take
the first bite, you realize you have
forgotten something—mustard
and ketchup; do you go back for them?

When you get there, there are four
bottles of sauces: mustard, ketchup,
a bottle you don’t recognize, and
a bottle of chili sauce with a Mexican name;
Do you add these strange ingredients?

As you walk to your car, carrying
the unopened bag of chips, do you
give it to the homeless man
at the corner? If you don’t, if you
eat the chips later, will you taste
the nacho cheese flavor as well as
smell the desperate odor of the hopeless
man by the walkway?

After Rain

2010-11-08T08:21:00.001-08:00

The earth is quenched.
Fresh puddles cradle the road.

Happy birds slurp full drops
Of dew weighing down leaves.

Cows graze happily
On tall wet grass.

Ripened oranges—bright golden
Jewels on olive mantle.

On this bright blue morning,
I drive the open country road

Washed clean by rain, happy
That man is able

To wrest Time (one hour)
From the universe Itself.

Rain

2010-11-07T20:29:00.000-08:00

Approaching Rain

Waves of cloud dunes veil emerging sun.

Cold, but not bitingly chilly morning--

perfect condition for a brisk run

along sidewalks littered with barchan piles

of crackling maple and tulip tree leaves.

Other leaves still cling to branches and boughs,

turn orange or bright torches of red flames.

Along peaceful streets and quiet cul-de-sacs,

uniformed suburban houses sleep on

row by row, while new strawberry seedlings

emerge from plastic-wrapped rows in the field.

Local birds begin their daily renaissance,

flitting among red ripe bunches of palm dates,

raucous as Hmong New Year celebrations.

Overhead, a lone gull, far from the sea,

hurries across the darkling sky.

Rain

In the great hall, a youth musical reenacts

memorable Biblical scenes, from creation,

to destruction, to redemption. Innocent faces

with angelic voices that wash the crowd.

Outside, rain begins, soaking into grass,

flower beds, maples, cypresses, sequoias.

Rain washes dust off parked cars, dirt off streets,

Smog and pollutions off the air.

Emerging from the hall, the starry sky
and the new-washed earth makes one look

instinctively for the returning dove
cradling the olive branch in its claws.

Bad Field

2010-11-04T09:07:00.001-07:00

phem teb ces phem ib cim

(bad field only lasts one season)

Red for sale signs appear on many properties. Homes

abandoned and foreclosed, people are moving back

into cramped apartments or smaller, older houses.
Young Hmong are left looking at one another

and themselves in the mirror with bafflement.

Older Hmong who lived in shanties of sticks,

drank from wells dug next to shit holes,

crossed the Mekong with only the clothes they wore,

fought for useless mountaintops year in year out,

farmed precarious mountain slopes year by year, know.

They know a bad field this year

can be discarded for better prospects,

silvers bars hidden under bamboo bed

can be abandoned, stacks of kip around the waist

can be deadly anchors crossing rivers; they know

next year may be worse, or better.

Just this morning, the abandoned house at the corner

is newly occupied—front lawn freshly tilled,

reseeded with grass, just waiting for rain.

Change

2010-11-03T08:33:00.001-07:00

Long lines at the elections booths
Last night.

Decided to detour to the gym
And sweat out the day’s tension.

On the way back,
The lines had doubled.

Driven by the twin threads
Of hope and fear,

People stood for hours
To cast their votes.

Today starts out cold;
Fog hugs the ground.

Country roads
Have to be negotiated slowly.

But forecast calls for 85 degrees
And a warmer day ahead.

The Last Farmer

2010-10-31T10:56:00.000-07:00

I live near the edge of town

On a block of similar houses

On land that used to be ranches

And farmlands

But the needs of civilization

And lure of big money

Tempted the farmers

To break their lands into little plots

Where each new owner has a few square

Yards of grass and a little tree-shaded backyard

The farmer on my block reserves

A little grove of citrus for himself

Protected by a dense fence

Of Italian cypresses and tall sequoias

His old ranch house rests quietly

In the shades

His tractor rusts in the yard

His truck parked unused to the side

His RV sits in the driveway

Facing the road

And the last farmer is ready
To depart for a new life

Borderland

2010-10-31T10:54:00.000-07:00

I awake at the sound of my little son crying

In complaint of the morning chill

I cuddle him back to sleep

And step out to the backyard

A thin layer of frost coats the grass

I pluck a soft persimmon off the branch

And bite into the cold sweet flesh

The sky is blue and clear

Except for long strands

of white clouds

I decide to walk the two blocks

To the edge of town

There, a freshly plowed field

Stretches like a red border

Or churned battle field

That protects the last farms and ranches

Along the foothills

Of the Sierra Nevadas

Asian Village Walks

2010-10-29T08:30:00.001-07:00

~ for G man

Crank: A light name for a serious man,
son of an itinerant preacher--a trouble-shooter
who took his family on the road
from little town to little town, across states,
to take over failing churches and raise them up again.
The son seems to have inherited the spirit
of the father, still traveling, still setting down
new roots…

Wayland Crank: Stocky, short blond hair slicked back,
blocky jaw, a ready smile, and booming tenor—
a good colleague, a perfect walking partner
with a hello, a how-do-you-do, to everyone
we met among these blocks of shifting tides:
from Whites to Mexicans to Hmong back to Mexicans.

Wayland and I often walked south along Winery
across Kings Canyon Boulevard,
by the Home Depot that replaced the dilapidated old K-Mart
which for years was a haunted
playground for local kids,
around the well-churned soccer fields,
back through the Food Maxx parking lot
with its dwindling customers.

Or we walked west along Kings Canyon, by Ernie’s Bakery
whose windows have displayed Mexican pastries “since 1962” ,
pass the old-style barber shop where a red, white and blue
barber’s pole still revolves by the front door,
around the corner where the closed Ritmo Latino stands
surrounded by numerous pay day loans,
to the new Olmos Elementary school
built where demolished homes once stood.

But our favorite route was east
through the Creekside apartments,
across Willow, through a block of old ranch houses
where the last white man on the block strolls
among his shady oaks and lush grapevines,
looking conspicuous next to the immigrant yards
with their groves of bamboos and bananas,
to Trolley Creek Park with its Victorian gables
and graffitied sidewalks that testify
to new stakes being claimed.

Only now that Wayland has moved on,
only now as I am walking alone
along these shifting routes, do I feel the discomfort,
when my mumbled hellos and how-do-you-dos
to the occasional elderly white lady, the Mexican teen-ager, the African-American man
go unanswered or returned with a suspicious look,
do I realize that it may take years--
maybe generations--
for me, a Hmong man, to walk here
with the confidence and ease
of Wayland Crank.

South of the Clouds

2010-10-28T16:55:00.000-07:00

Sauropod Dinosaur precursor skeleton found, October 2010
Lufeng, Chuxiong, Yunnan (South of the Clouds)

Under this slate sky
Among these ancient fields

That we Miao have claimed
And tried to keep

The Han and the Manchu
From occupying

Where we have fought
Bled and died

In many battles
Are buried

Sauropod that have lain unseen
Under the flood plains

For these two hundred
Million years

Sauropod, Miao, Manchu
Han, we're all just tiny islands

Among those archipelagos of clouds
Floating over these wide plains

Key Holder

2010-10-28T09:56:00.001-07:00

News reaches us of the passing
Of Maridjan, the Key Holder

Spiritual Caretaker
Of Mount Merapi on the Ring of Fire

For 33 years he had spoken
To the unpredictable spirits

Offering them appeasements
Of rice, clothing, and chicken

This year, he predicted
The volcanic eruption

But did not heed the warning
“My time to die in this place has almost come.”

He was found prostrated in prayer
Covered in heavy white soot

“Who’s going to tell us now
what’s going on with Merapi?”

Source: AP http://www.google.com/hostednews/ap/article/ALeqM5hG9iJBvJ_RKIqlO3XOD7i-bBZcYA?docId=d794add265e44e11b32a5f31482229b3

Dawn

2010-10-27T08:10:00.001-07:00

The sun has not yet risen

A pearly moon hangs
Like a strange sun

Clouds form
New archipelagos

For an instant
We are

The clouds

2010-10-25T20:57:00.000-07:00

On a Windy Sunday Morning

crows jostle for perches

on the tips of dancing

italian cypresses--brushes painting

black crows on blue sky

A Cold Wind

2010-10-24T19:18:00.001-07:00

Ruffles branches

Of trees guarding the backyard

Bamboo leaves hum softly

As they dance

Perched on a light pole

A lone sparrow

Courageously chirps

To hold back autumn

Beyond the brickwall

Morning traffic reveberates

Overhead a silver plane

Heads northwest

Its shape an arrow

Piercing the underbelly

Of earthy clumps

Of clouds

Old people claim

They can feel the change

Of seasons

In their aching bones

That’s something

At least I don’t yet feel

Thinking of Du Fu at the Beginning of Autumn

2010-10-23T19:09:00.000-07:00

No sound of birds singing;

They’ve migrated on the sky road

To warmer climes,

Leaving us mortals behind.

The first green olives

Turn dark.

Persimmons ripen

On the bough.

Pomegranate seeds grow so full

They burst the red rinds,

Allowing ants and spiders

To reach the red, tart juice.

The first drops of autumn rain

Splatter my picture windows,

And I’m glad

My Saturday chores are done.

I’ve spent all day trimming trees,

Weeding flowerbeds, sweeping

The crumbly leaves of the neighbor’s tulip trees

That litter my driveway.

Already, another year passes,

And I’ve done nothing noteworthy.

Reading your Autumn Thoughts,

I tell myself, Things haven’t changed much

In 1250 years.

Summer Sequoia

2010-10-22T09:23:00.001-07:00

The cool winds of autumn arrive
Too late to save the young sequoia

That had managed for twenty years
To survive on the narrow strip

Of dirt between the sidewalk
& the graffitied brick wall

From my office window across the street
I watch helplessly as the branches droop

& the leaves dry up and turn brown

In the early morning, high school kids
Carrying books and backpacks

Chat animatedly as they walk
past the dying sequoia

Two little girls in matching pink sweaters
Stroll to school with their mother

On the cracked sidewalk
Where only last week

There was a trail of blood
Leading to a pile of torn

& blood-soaked clothing