Merry Retirement
I am a low rank official in the government;
Who soon arrives at the age of retirement.
Exercise is my routine in morning and evening.
I take a noon rest in the bed for meditating.
At times, I practise calligraphy with a Chinese brush.
Computer is used to amend my verses not in a rush.
Chanting poem makes me very happy.
My black hair turns grey but I do not worry.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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Hong Kong Association of Amateur Calligraphers
Chinese calligraphy has no boundary.
Friends of Hong Kong gather here to work hardly.
We imitate the works of Wang's father and son
And follow the rules of the Qin and Tang penmen.
For complicated words, all strokes should go closely.
To form the simple ones, we must write them thickly.
We also study the ancient stone rubbings from tablets.
Exchanging views with the mentor, we achieve our targets.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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To Transmit The Culture Fire
We should follow the sages to carry on their duty.
Modern technology helps us to change the world daily.
In China, poem and couplet websites are flooded.
People transmit the culture fire by internet method.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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Give Up Betting On Horse Racing
Horse of outside chance should win this time but lost bluntly.
Bettors were angry and clamored against the jockey.
In my old age, I knew at last the race was but a fraud.
However, many horse fans deemed the trainer as their God.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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Poem, Wine, Fiddle & Chess
Chanting poem and pairing couplet made me happy.
So thus drinking bottles of wine with my friend, Charley!
I played fiddle according to the ancient music book.
In chess competition, I defeated the famous crook.
Papers and cups always scattered on my table.
At times, songs and reading sound were full of my aisle.
Drunken and sleepy, I asked my guests to leave my den.
Having no urgent matter, they would be coming again.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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Autumn Cicada
It embraced the withering tree in autumn.
Time passed away and good fortune had not come.
Its sad chirping noise startled the frustrated walker.
In sympathy, he shook his head and walked slower.
From Charles Wu in Hong Kong, China.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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Military Training
Hearing morning bugle, I rushed to the flag-raising rite.
The ugly cotton-wadded quilt was deemed to be alright.
I was not up to the standard in parade and shooting.
Face with mud; helmet with leaves, I was camouflaging.
After training, all overseas students would be away.
The platoon leader was happy to be on holiday.
Cherishing our friendship, all people must say good-bye.
We drank wine in the graduation party and I did cry.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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Disneyland
Hong Kong Disneyland is open for business today.
The paradise looks so new that all cheer, ‘Hurrah! '
Looking at the castle, you may dream about your childhood.
Flying over the stars, you explore the space where you could.
Forest beasts dance in the Festival of the Lion King.
Cinderella becomes a beauty and the mice sing.
The display of fireworks makes visitors so amazing.
They enjoy themselves but hesitate before leaving.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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The Champion Horse
Thousands of people greet the best horse in the field.
It runs so fast yet easily though not four-wheeled.
Its speed is higher than the wind and bird in the sky.
Sometimes it neighs on the grass; sometimes it looks so shy.
Is it the son of the famous horse owned by the king?
Its excellent performance makes all horse owners awing.
It wins many open events in an easy way.
Leaving his good name in the racing world today.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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Fish And Shrimp [1-2]
Fish And Shrimp [1]
I sigh with deep feeling that fish and shrimp are but children.
They are slap-happy to play in the net of the fisherman.
Seafood merchants become fierce and cruel butchers,
Who exhibit them in a pool to attract buyers.
Fish and shrimp[2]
You need not sigh furiously because of the gluttons.
Since ancient times, fish and shrimp have been cooked with onions.
Excessive catch should be prevented and even God says no!
We must protect the existing resource on the earth so.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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To Be A Fairy
You can have a clear conscience in absolute quietness.
After reading Buddhism books, your feelings are wondrous.
You become the peak fairy, 'Han-man' watching cranes to dance.
At diving fishes, the water fairy 'Care-free' will glance.
The cloud city with smoke palace is your final home.
The funny moon with steps leading to heaven, you should roam.
Inhale then exhale after meditation makes you happy.
Playing zither and Buddist music, you will no more be angry.
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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Fishing In The River At Autumn Night
The moon shines on the river while autumn wind is blowing.
At night, I invite my friends to go fishing and boating.
Rowing our oars, we seek a shoal of fish gladly.
Mooring to pillar of the bridge, we act quietly.
My partner catches a red carp with his fishing bait.
Shaking its head, the reed wonders the old men's fate.
Is the strategist of Zhou Dynasty still fishing?
No! He migrates to the land of peach blossoms sleeping!
Chinese paintings & calligraphy about all Charles Wu's poems
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poem by Charles WOO
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An Evening Poem
AN EVENING POEM
An evening poem
Waits for deeper darkness
A night poem knows blackness
As home.
A morning poem is light
An afternoon poem is thick with heat.
All times have a poem
And all seasons poems also
All lives are poems
And all stories also.
We all are and all know poems
Poems pervade us
And the universe.
It is night now
But when the morning comes
Its poem will overshadow now.
What a brave new world it is
With so many poems in it
And what a life-
With such deep sadness
Waiting forever to be unexpressed.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Morning Poem Did Not Come
THE MORNING POEM DID NOT COME
The morning poem did not come-
So this is the effort of an afternoon poem,
Warm and sun- filled and relaxing and deep and waiting.
This is a poem between times more interesting than itself.
The light is so great now.
But this too is a poem of little or nothing to say
Of afternoon emptiness after morning emptiness
On a tired tired day.
Once I thought I would write poems which would make immortal
Those I love.
Now I write poems to keep myself going.
This afternoon I am extremely tired
But if this is poem
Or even if I only think it is
I can have a rest
Before I face the evening.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Of The Evening Is A Quiet Poem
THE POEM OF THE EVENING IS A QUIET POEM
The poem of the evening is a quiet poem
It comes in gentleness with tired eyes
It does not know how long it will last
It believes a fresh breeze
And a simple song
Are all its needs
To feel happiness.
The poem of the evening this evening
Believes in life
Believes in Goodness of God
Believes it will somehow be alright.
The poem of the evening this evening
May be a foolish one
But it is a quietly happy one.
We need such poems sometimes
For life is hard in the long working days
And in the times of difficult idleness
When no dreams come.
Quiet and quiet
Soft as sleep
The poem of the evening this evening
Is a gentle one.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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This Poem
THIS POEM
This poem
This first poem
This last poem
This poem that invented Poetry
This one and only one poem
This fictional poem
This ideal poem
This perfect poem
This would – be holy poem
This unreal poem
This poem which is not a poem
This poem which is the essence of all poetry
This poem
And that poem
And my poem
And your poem
And all poems
Poem poem poem poem poem
This poem
Mine and yours
This one small poem of so so many
And not such a good poem at all.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poem Of The Evening
THE POEM OF THE EVENING
The poem of the evening
Is a small poem
It waits for its own words
And hears itself come slowly and surely
It knows by the time the darkness is here
It will already be real.
The poem of the evening
Is an easy and small poem
It may not mean much
But it comes so smoothly
It seems to laugh at the heat of the day
And love itself for being here.
The poem of the evening
After the long day
Is a happy poem
And it looks forward to praying the evening prayer forever.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Poem about Poetry - Chinese poets versus Western Poets
the chinese poet, his characters (calligraphy) help
set out images the western poets
look for words to show
the chinese poet, his characters help him
spread out his feelings and thoughts
the way a painting does
some meanings are trapped in his
pictographs that twirl and swirl over the page,
while some are reenforced
they show the schooled from the mediocre
the western poet, every cadence of the word
he has learnt since childhood determines his 'pedigree'
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Grey Grey Morning
GREY GREY MORNING
Grey grey morning
Purim again
Where to begin?
A poem is not just any words-
A poem needs a music of its own-
A beauty-
Lines that are memorable.
A poet cannot just be
What one happens to see and feel
At the moment
A poem must have lines which others will remember.
Grey grey morning
Purim again
Another poem about a poem
Is there one line here worth remembering?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Beauty Of Calligraphy
Calligraphy grants ecstasy,
Art fashioned on a scroll,
Embellishing my poetry
That came forth from my soul,
Such that the precious words transform
Through elegance and style,
To leave this poet's heart still warm,
Such that I start to smile...
Calligraphy grants fantasy,
Fonts fashioned and then shared,
Developing expressively
Each brand new phrase prepared...
With finite details, loops and curls,
With silver and with gold,
With extra swirls for each unfurls,
New blessings to behold...
Calligraphy grants heraldry
Its tales in time to tell,
In drawing out the mystery
And history as well...
Likewise, awards are often framed,
To hang upon the wall,
Portraying honour for those named,
Admired by us all...
Calligraphy grants joy to me,
My troubles disappear...
I concentrate on what must be,
Intentions crystal clear...
When all is done, no more to do,
Sometimes a tear is shed...
I sacrifice this gift to you,
Each time my rhymes are read...
poem by Denis Martindale
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A Poem Is Just A Poem
a poem is just a poem and if it is just a poem
it must be just a poem just like another poem
a poem is nothing but just a poem otherwise
it cannot be my poem; it may speak about
anything, or something, or about everything,
but my poem is just a poem just like anybody's
poem, which is just but a poem, like any other
poem, for a poem to be a poem it must just be
a poem: it has nothing to do with my love, and death
my life, or bliss, but as i have told you, once, twice
thrice, eat some rice, and be that wise, a poem is
just a poem, just like your poem. Why do you insist
on asking, what is happening to me? I am not a
poem, for i am but just the composer of the poem,
need i tell you again, that a poem is just a poem?
just like any other poem, which is just a poem
it is just a voice in my head that i have heard
someone comes and speaks and i listen so
this poem is not actually my poem but the poem
of someone else's: theirs not mine, from a mind.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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