The Sea with no End

Qinghai lake,

Sounds like a great escape,

A lake,

A sea,

With a name,

With meaning.

Qing is blue,

Hai is sea.

How could a lake,

Be called a sea,

How did it come to be?

There were days when there  was no internet,

There were no flights,

High-speed trains,

GPS maps,

That let us know every location.

Every river,

Every sea,

Every forest and tree.

People stayed a few miles from birth,

For their entire lives.

When they looked at the lake,

Saw no other shore.

They assumed there was no land,

For miles and miles.

So Qing lake became Qing sea,

Qinghai,

Was shouted high and low.

For every visitor who walked near,

And wanted to know,

What the body of water was,

How far it could go.

9 Furs Deer

A deer has nine different colors in its fur,

It saves a man’s life,

Wants almost nothing in return.

Only that the human would keep it a secret,

To be discreet,

Not to gossip about it.

But the human cannot prevail,

Gold, land and power avail.

A man has a dream about the deer,

He describes the fur to the king,

The king wants the fur for his daughter.

He offers half his kingdom,

The man who was saved,

Who had made one promise,

Could not keep it.

It is a story from India,

Told in Dunhuang,

Painted alongside murals,

Which lead to messages,

Both singular and plural.

The human did not value the animal,

As much as he valued humanity.

He quickly forgot his promise,

When promised something greater.

He betrayed the deer,

Then fell ill,

Passing away.

He held what he gained,

For a few mere days,

Until he would join the gases of the world.

Becoming Nitrogen,

In the fields,

Where more deer would graze.

Cannons Await

Cannons wait on this wall,

They dream of being fired on,

Some unfortunate fool,

Who draws far too close.

Some people are still as cannons,

They are just as deadly.

Yet, they require a fuse,

A torch,

A team,

To send their shot to the horizon.

To try to take on the world.

From the low-hanging fruit,

To the tips of the palisades.

Blessed are those who can light their own fuse,

Who roll and open fire freely.

Their eyes see a target,

They open fire,

Both guns blazing,

All cannons firing.

If they do not succeed,

It is not the end of the world.

If they succeed, all audiences will applaud,

Whether they are in the fort,

Or charging towards the wall. 

What Remains of the Wall

In Jiayuguan, I saw the remains of the wall.

The Great Wall of China,

The end of the wall,

Where civilization met a lack of it.

The wall was built over time,

For decades,

Perhaps centuries,

It would shine.

The shine would fade,

Like the rims on an Escalade.

Time remains undefeated in that way.

As much as we save,

Very little will survive,

Like light that fades,

From the beginning to the end of a day.

The remains of the end of the wall,

A thin line that reaches across the horizon.

The remains of The First Beacon,

A decaying rock.

The preserved Hanging Great Wall,

The best remaining artifact,

Which lies still completely intact.

In our lives and in our future,

It is exactly like the wall.

We hope to tower and live for eternity.

Yet like the wall,

What remains will be fragmented,

Even those fragments in time,

Will be less than the thin wall’s line.