Tai Chi Poems

The Goalie
Soft-eyed taiji goalie,
that sound at the ‘Aud'
hush, then roar
as the ice sheet opens wide
from side to side,
is the noumenon
beneath all forms.

Seventy Eight
All afternoon in the practice hall
stamping and shouting
we practiced "Cannon Fist".
Then, at 5:00, Master Jou would light incense
press palms together
bow three times
to Chang San Feng's corner shrine.
Framed on the wall
a venerable gentleman in dynastic court dress sits
an embroidered crane upon his breast.
Two ladies with secret smiles pour tea
and laugh over their stitchery.
I ask: "Master Jou,
Is this your family?"
"Yes , my Father
and my two Mothers."
He turns slowly
walks to where his slippers wait.
Outside a soft rain
Falls on the farm.
Snow Moon
Tai Chi by moonlight:
my sword makes shadows a dream of snow upon the ground.
Tomb Antlers
I heard your whisper as we entered the corridor:
“…avert…avert…
do not come this way…
…come no farther.”
Shang bronzes to our left
Chin ceramics to our right
and you at the end
twisted antlers nailed to a black slab
warning us
a last remnant of forgotten Chu.
The Lord of Chin,
First Sovereign Emperor,
blotted you from memory,
the scholars of Chu
and all who could read or write
buried alive
their inscriptions and names
chiseled from cliffs
the memory of a literature
obliterated utterly,
choked under the dust of time
and the rumbling war chariots of Chin.
Now here you are
twisted black fingers raised in warning
wrested from the entrance of some long-forgotten tomb
whispering at us
from that glass case
at the far end
of this bright corridor
a quiet dry voice
“…avert…avert….”
Year of the OX
Heaving delicate hooves
let us sway through time into
rhythms of honest effort,
focus and accomplishment.
Not for us the potential
malevolence of rats!
Penitence of the bewildered
and domesticated
becomes us not.
We rise and walk with
strong purpose and application,
achieving our desires.
Cloud Writer
When I am old
I shall become a hermit
and grow my beard and hair long.
Then, dipping my head in ink
I will write poems
on passing clouds.
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