A Lone Bird, Taking Flight

From being burned OUT!  Translated…

After the noises, I knew, I will never, return, to those days of quiet, of serenity again, every day, I’d, watched that sky that’s, constantly changing colors, the thunder that, came from, nowhere, the flood that started, out of nowhere, how, do I, get back to the days of the past, when I could, feel at ease and just, study?  How do I, go back to the days, when this trail wasn’t, so well traveled?  Right now, my mind felt, like that old shirt that’s been washed and rewashed, over, and over again, no matter how I’d bleached, there are still, age marks, spots, with the memories of the injuries I’d, sustained in life.

A bird returning to the nest flew by the skies, where, is it, returning to?  Where, can it find a nest so settled and stable?  Can’t remember, how many times the feathers changed, with that expectation, of a, brand new life, living among others, but too shamed, to fight for the food, and the only dignity it had remained, in flying solo amongst the buildings.  If name is a symbol of glory, then, distribution becomes, the biggest sort of insult.  That sort of an awful looks from fighting over the food, don’t know how many fell ill by seeing it every single day.  Just like that bird that cut across the skies, allowing, that shade, to vanish, into the distances.

And, in the depth of the night, came the sounds of flute playing, who is it, that played that song of sorrow of the eras?  Is the person, hiding that scent of sorrow in the notes, passing, to someone who can understand, or, like a nightingale, singing its songs of the night?  The notes seemed to have that ancientness to it, man’s pursuits of thousands of years, will NEVER measure up to the purities of the world, and, how can you, mutilate yourself so?  No longer, flipping at the calendars, no longer, seeking out that longitude/latitude on the maps, where to station oneself, it wouldn’t, make a difference.  Sneaking a peek, at others, everything is, so clear now.

exactly what that felt like…not my photograph…

Some sang high, those who followed along, gathered, only that lone bird, continued, flying, all on its own, it doesn’t call on its kind, so, it can only, flight for the reducing amounts of foods, that branch it’d stood on for day already, rotted out, and can no longer, withstand the weights of all the birds.  It’d, flew onward alone, left ALL the noises from the others behind, continued in flight, and, flying on, and on, and on, even as the moon dimmed out, depending on just the dying light of the stars.  It’d, kept, flying onward, become, this small, black dot in the universe.

So, this, is how the writer feels, getting lost in the daily grind, there’s, that sense of burnout, that sense of I don’t know what I’m doing here, that sense, of feeling tired, fatigued, of the same old routines, day in, and day out, and just like that bird, the narrator will, keep treading on in her/his own life, because that, is what we all do, we, carry on, with our lives!

Give Me a Bouquet of Flowers

Making your own days brighter, spending only a little money to make yourself happy, translated…

On the way home from work, I’d brushed shoulders with thousands of people, and couldn’t help, but feel somewhat, agitated, but, turning the corner, into that florist shop, seeing the wide variety of flowers, waving their arms at me, I was able to, saturate my emotions, even, felt, a bit, glad.

it’s, not for anybody else, but herself, not my photograph…

I’d selected a bundle of my favorite flowers, making the rest of my way home easier, even if I was, cramped inside the MRT trains, there was, a separate world, belonging to, just me there.  And, if there were, a couple of days that I couldn’t make my way to the florist’s, I’d lost that center in my own life, felt, that there’s, NO light in the house, that I’d, not felt safe and secure anymore.  Give me a bouquet of flowers, then, I’m, fully, recharged; a woman with a bouquet of flowers, carries herself, most beautifully in the world.

A child who’d brushed by my side said enviously, “Mommy, look, she has a bouquet of flowers!”, I’d felt, delighted, somewhat, proud, I’d, pulled a rose from my bundle, handed it to that cute child, said, “Now, you have your own flower too!”

So, this, is passing around the happiness you’d found, in your ordinary day-to-day living, because life can become a total DRAG, and, if you don’t find some way, to cheer yourself up like this woman had found the ways to, then, you will always, be carrying that soured face to and from work every single day, from nine to five, or even longer.

making the floral arrangements oneself, photo from online…

In an Instant, a Poem


Plant a Single Rose on the Horizon

The Rising Sun Watered It

a rose, in the early mornings, in someone’s garden, photo from online…

Drop, by Drop

Dripped, onto that Laughing Poetic Eye of the Rose’s

Mmmmmmmm!  The Rain Became a Downpour from the Skies

cleansed by the rain here, like that, easactly, NOT my photograph…

Coloring that Falsified Look of the Years

So, everything is NOT what it seemed as, and, that’s just how “constant” things are in the world, the poet described this so very well, don’t you think???

Out of Time — Max Meunier

shards of sanity scattered intermittently across the glass-like surface shades of unfamiliarity fade into permanence the strangest of our thoughts condemned to feeling only the past remains unchanged perhaps it is inconsequential as words are as they ever were stinging our jaded eyes with the distortions of our dreams forever dangling out of reach and […]

via Out of Time — Max Meunier

Turning Home Late, a Poem

The encounters of someone’s returning home late in the evenings, translated…

The Monk, Pushed

That Door Underneath the Moon

The Door

Already Used to This, the Silence, the Sturdiness

like this???  Not my photograph…

No Matter How Hard It’d Pushed, the Moon Just, Refused to Open Up the Doors

The Dews Made the Shawl Wet

After He’d Felt Confused, then, Laughed, Bitterly

Patted Down that Scar on His Bald Head

So Radiantly Shiny, Like the Golden Glows

Then, I Shall, Bang on the Doors on His Behalf Then

But, No Matter How Hard I’d Knocked

The Door Constantly Answered:

Empty, Empty, Empty

And Finally, the Door Swung Open

The Moon Still with that Icy Expression on Its Face

Was the Door, Pushed Open by Him, or Was it, Cracked Open by Me?

 a pagoda at night 的圖片結果or this, not my photograph still…

For Thousands of Years

He Kept, Standing Tall Outside the Temple

Waited on that Bell Chime in the Depth of the Mountains

To Reply Back to Him

So, there’s that scent of solitary, waiting, endlessly, for something that just, won’t happen, and yet, the door still opened up, it’s just, that the narrator didn’t know if s/he were the one who’d, opened it, or that if it was, some other forces in nature that managed to crack the door open…

The Rehearsals on Set, a Poem


Meditate X-Ray Vision

Measure & Weigh that Gigantic, Gorgeous


rehearsals on set 的圖片結果what it’d looked like, before the show starts…photo from online…

I Already, Relieved Myself of the Quality of

the Internal Flames.  The Moment I Touched

the Plot with the Extension of My Hands

Instinct Suddenly, Shoved Me Outside the Doors

And, I Was, Faced with

Everything that Happens On the Set at the Moment

Waiting Until the Rice Grew Past My Knees

That Sensation that Compelled Me to Pull Them Up

Sounded off the Alarms of Joy

getting ready for the show 的圖片結果in makeup, and running that last rehearsal of lines, to make sure that we are, more than prepared…photo from online…

Asking that Sky from Outside My Windows

Are You Too, Afraid of Noises?

So, this, is all someone’s mind, making a scene, so to speak, the narrator is having an introspective moment, and, this is leading the narrator somewhere…

I Just Want One Red Bean Pastry

How this love came to be ours…finding each other here, translated…

My son lifted up his head and asked, “Mommy, how did you and dad meet?”, I’m not afraid that this generation of children don’t know what “internet” is, but that they’re, making friends online, and, it’s, not quite easy, to explain this to a ten-year-old.

I sat, in front of the BBS’s black screen, keyed out my very first friend-making letter, the title being, “Seeking a Big Bear”. I’d counted over a dozen replies <RE: Seeking a Big Bear>, all of these “big bears” that replied, what sort of a girl are they, hoping for? Out of my expectations, Big Bear #1 was an older high schoolmate, because of my harmonica playing skills, I’d, sparked his interests; Big Bear #2 was in the physics department in N.T.U., he’d explained the theory of relativity to me in Da-An Forest Park; Big Bear #3, was in the National Developments major of N.T.U., he’d discussed the party politics, and pried on my political tendencies, at the same time, dating all of these men had, made me gain that bitter taste of love.

sharing desserts with her boyfriend…photo from online…

As the writing frenzies lost heat, a little over ten days later, another letter with the subject: “Found Your Bear Yet?”, from P, we’d became penpals for a year, and, decided, that after taking turns, writing out ninety-nine letters to each other, we shall then, meet up.

Being penpals online, saved the waiting period for the mails, we can always share what we’re experiencing in the moments, the ordinariness of life, the books we’d read………sadness, happiness, doubts, unsettlements, we’d told one another, without any reserves, like I’m, talking, to another me. In no more than three months’ time, P wrote that he’d slowly, fallen for me, and I was stuck, in the messiness of my relationship with Mr. Bear #3; P helped me along, this stumbling love, until I’d gone to Mongolia for fifteen days, with the ashes of all of my previous passing love into the desert in Tengri.

“You’ve Got Mail”, with Tom Hanks, and Meg Ryan from back in 1999, had come to life in 2000, with me, playing Meg Ryan’s role. I’d waited anxiously for the blinking notices of new mail on my BBS. On the date we’d made when we started, we’d met up at MRT Guting Station’s fourth exit, and since then, we’d fallen, into love’s “net”.

Every Tuesday, P would come up north, to wait for me to get out of class, the icy cold winds had, made our love feel even warmer, he’d placed my hand inside his pockets, with the freshly baked red bean pastries in it.

Afterwards, we’d always walk together to Longchaun Street, bought a red bean pastry together. I’d told the lady, “I’m sorry, I only want one!”, the woman didn’t press me to buy more, said, “that’s fine, it’ll, last longer!”, and that, was the very first time, I’d heard, that longer-lasting being used to describe the relationship of vendor and customers, it was, very heartwarming. Don’t know if, the love I shared with P had turned into, this long-lasting stream, because of our words of exchange? If you can, spend the rest of your lives, with someone whom you can talk about anything with, after the passions subsided, the love is still based on the firm and stable foundation of friendship, that, is what I believed.

On this night, the moon glowed softly, the four of us strolled along the streets of Xinyi District, as my son’s questions just settled, I’d gazed over to my husband, and, without a thought, he’d replied, “Your mom and I were, penpals!”, and, the sidewalk that’s paved with the broken specks of glass, twinkled on, celebrating this love we’d, come to share!

here’s the red bean pastry that this woman was talking about…photo from online…

So, this, is how you and your husband met, you’d established that connection online, talked about things, and, that would be, a strong basis for your marriage, because the two of you started interacting as friends, and, in order for love to last, you must, establish that sense of connection, before any sort of intimacy can take place, and that, is what had happened here!