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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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The Poem Is Restless In Me
THE POEM IS RESTLESS IN ME
The poem is restless in me-
It waits to be heard-
Now that it comes
It does not feel especially happy about itself.
It knows it is not real-
It is not much-
Just because it is called a poem by me
Does not make it a poem -
The mind has its own place-
My mind also -
I am always thinking poems are with me,
And poems waiting to come-
But who am I and what do I know?
These lines are written in the still of the morning
When the light outside still brings hope
That a new day is possible.
But so many poems have been written in the early morning
And I am so old from hearing them said to me by myself-
And what does it all mean anyway in the end when God is the Only One?
And who am I to know what God is, or invoke the name of God
In such a small thing as my own poetry?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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Splash
the illusion is that you are simply
reading this poem.
the reality is that this is
more than a
poem.
this is a beggar's knife.
this is a tulip.
this is a soldier marching
through Madrid.
this is you on your
death bed.
this is Li Po laughing
underground.
this is not a god-damned
poem.
this is a horse asleep.
a butterfly in
your brain.
this is the devil's
circus.
you are not reading this
on a page.
the page is reading
you.
feel it?
it's like a cobra. it's a hungry eagle circling the room.
this is not a poem. poems are dull,
they make you sleep.
these words force you
to a new
madness.
you have been blessed, you have been pushed into a
blinding area of
light.
the elephant dreams
with you
now.
the curve of space
bends and
laughs.
you can die now.
you can die now as
people were meant to
die:
great,
victorious,
hearing the music,
being the music,
roaring,
roaring,
roaring.
poem by Charles Bukowski
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There Are Times When Only By Hearing The Poems Of Others
THERE ARE TIMES WHEN ONLY BY HEARING THE POEMS OF OTHERS
There are times when only by hearing the poems of others,
Can one begin to write one’s own-
One needs the rhythm of poetry
And once one has it
One can perhaps begin.
This morning I have not listened to anyone else-
And I write these lines
Into the bare space of the page
With a tremor of doubt
At whether they are ‘poetry’.
I hear myself as a poem
But what others hear
May be something else entirely-
poem by Shalom Freedman
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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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There Is A Poem Which Is Not A Poem
THERE IS A POEM WHICH IS NOT A POEM
There is a poem which is not a poem
Its mind breaks its music
Its heart is too much in thought.
It does not sing us to somewhere else.
There is a poem which is not a poem
Prosaic confessional flat,
Its says its single thing from the soul
And leaves the page without implication.
How many such poems have I written
As I write this one now?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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For Keeps Lover
So Time I thread through
the needle eye
and stretch it like taffy
across my life,
and weave it like a tapestry.
You are embroidered there;
major needle work here
and your smile
beams on my quilt
which
covers me in sleep.
So it is the little things-
which like statuettes
parade across
my double mirror dresser;
mementos
I guess
but more to me like monuments;
your friendship ring;
the tennis bracelet,
the prom corsage
and of course the photographs.
I see the nightclub print,
the holiday scene
and, of course, our oldest's
graduation.
You know
we too
are each other's memories
of times past
and our youthful youth;
when you,
the Handsome You
and I a Beauty
wallowed in the unconsciousness
youthfulness enjoys
oblivious to their own
beauty
or maybe not.
But nonetheless
nothing's changed inside of us
I'm still nineteen
in my own
minds eye
and wonderfully
also in yours.
That is to me
is the miracle.
Nothing changes
from Beauty's Eye
and in the eye
of one's
For Keeps
Lover.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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I Will Not Paint Those Paintings
I used to see paintings in my mind's eyes
I used to dream scenes amazing paintings
I used to dream paintings in sleep sight
paintings in details I had never seen before
paintings which stopped heart in sight shock
I knew canvases were awkward hard to carry
to travel with poems is only paper and pen
paint your paintings inspiring I write poems
I will not soul carry paint those paintings
poem by Terence George Craddock
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A New Flag is Declared
A new Flag is Declared
In the dusk of the night,
Under the watchful eyes of the guards and the guns.
Ill write a poem,
On your shirt.
A multihued shirt,
Coming from the torture chamber.
A shirt of cotton and blood.
A shirt of torment, torture and anguish.
Ill write a poem
On the midst of the night
In the milieu of red.
A poem,
A single word poem.
People will make it a flag,
Raised, full staff,
Written on it a poem,
A single word poem.
On the daybreak of Iran,
In the milieu of blue
The earth is given birth
To a new flag;
Written on it:
Freedom, a single word poem.
poem by Cyrus Mahan
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Parade
Life is like a parade,
There are two kinds of people,
The ones participating in the parade,
and the ones looking at the parade.
The people in the parade are the successful people,
the hardworking people, the ones who are trying to make a difference in the world,
Even though doors keep slamming in their face they never give up,
And by the side of the parade are the lazy ones, the people who are afraid to take risk,
The backstabbers, the ones who just sit and criticized,
the ones who dream and hope and take no action
I am in the parade, I wonder where you at.
poem by Jean Cherubin
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