Morning Qi Gong
In early spring, I practice qi gong and tai chi on my driveway, opening with the “Eight Silk Brocades” sequence. Form: ping start, non-rhyming first line.
Poem:
Blue sky’s fresh breath sighs cold out
Black earth’s new buds drink warmth in
Light heart’s clear qi calm mind lifts
Cloud hands deep roots silk threads spin
Seventy Years
May, 2025. Filled with reflections and memories, I walk through the woods. A storm-downed tree blocks the path to the memorial bench for my son Daniel. In August, I return with a bow saw and clear the path. Form: Regulated jueju, 7 words per line, ze start, aaba rhyme scheme.
Poem:
Oaks stretch seeds fall moist earth bed
Vines cling stumps rot soft ferns spread
Dead wood blocks path I saw past
Thoughts walk through years lost steps tread
Notes on the poem: On my 70th birthday, I am very conscious of the passage of time and the cycles of life. I walk to the memorial bench for my son, who died way too young. I turn 70, still thankfully healthy. Trees grow, storms blow them down, stumps rot. But there is always new growth: acorns drop to sprout, vines twine, ferns enjoy the rich soil. I like the various ways that one can read the third line. The dead limb blocked my progress along the trail. With eyesight and imagination, I “saw” past the obstruction. Later I returned with a tool to “saw” past it mechanically. I intend both the literal dead wood of the tree and the metaphorical dead wood of regrets and reflections.
Northern Lights
The northern lights (aurora borealis) rarely reach as far south as central Ohio. An intense solar flare (mid May, 2024) pushed the normal boundary to our area. My wife and I drove to a country field, away from most city lights, to look for this special sight. Form: Regulated jueju, 7 words per line, ping start, aaba rhyme scheme.
Cold void vast space great sun flare
Night park wide field faint lamp glare
Up north we scan pale pink arcs
Drive home deep peace soft glow share
Notes on the poem:
Line one: Many jueju start with an expansive natural scene. This poem begins beyond human sight, way out in space, with the solar flare that triggers the aurora.
Line two descends from outer space to a rural park. (Where we also “park” our car.) The park is both parallel and anti-parallel to line one’s “void.” The void of space is empty vacuum; the park is a physical place, with ground and grass. But this park/field also has a component of emptiness, an open expanse without trees. “Wide field”: This is literally the grassy field in which we stand. But it also suggests the wide field of view that we seek for our stargazing.
Line three: “Scan”. We scan for the aurorae. To the naked eye, they were at best a faint gray haze. Cell phone cameras with a 3-second exposure captured some color.
Line four: The poem began in outer space, then settled on an outdoor field, and now follows us toward our home, our closest interior space. The movement is ever more intimate. The cold void of space has become the deep peace that we feel. The “soft glow” is the subtle aurora we sought together, but also the shared experience of looking for the aurora on a calm, clear night. The glow is as much in our hearts as in the sky.
It is intriguing to consider whether capturing an aurora with one’s cell phone counts as “seeing” it. I continue to ponder this. The phone’s camera did give me a picture to share! Ultimately, perhaps it doesn’t matter. I recall Chinese poems where a poet seeks a Daoist hermit or Buddhist monk but never finds him. The journey itself is enlightening.