"Of Dreams after morning calm"

"Of Dreams after Morning Calm"

Of Dreams after Morning Calm

In the hush of dawn, where the city sleeps,
The district wakes with whispered streets.
Soft light spills from sunshine's bright,
Chasing shadows of the lingering night.

This morning calm, a gentle breath,
Stirs the soul, defies regret.
Dreams woven in the fabric of time,
Dance with the breeze in rhythms sublime.

As footsteps echo on asphalt roads,
Memories rise where the heart once roamed.
In markets where laughter fills the air,
Echoes of journeys linger there.

Beneath the skyline, bold yet old,
Stories of the past unfold.
In the quiet moments before the throng,
A fleeting peace, where we belong.

Of dreams after morning calm, one end sing,
Of a place where the heart takes wing.

The Bell Struck, Chasing Luck

The bell struck once, a hollow tone,

Through silent air, it rolled alone.

A ripple in the evening’s veil,

A fleeting wish, a whispered tale.

It chased the luck, swift through the night,

As shadows fled from fading light.

The echo lingered, bold and clear,

In hopes to catch what hearts hold dear.

The bell struck twice, the sound more sure,

A beckon to the distant shore.

Where dreams and fortunes intertwine,

And fate’s own hand begins to shine.

But luck, elusive, slipped away,

Lost in the rhythm of the day.

Still, the bell struck, loud and true,

For those who dare to chase it too.

Sanchon: A Quiet Waiting

I step into stillness,
where walls breathe in the scent of pine and stone,
and silence wraps around me like the folds of an old robe.
Here, time loosens its grip—
a monk’s whisper carried by the wind,
telling me to wait, to watch.

The table before me,
bare, but for the promise
of roots and leaves—
each ingredient a prayer,
each flavor a path.

The air hums with something ancient.
Maybe the land, maybe the hands
that have shaped this food,
patient as the mountains.

I sit, listening to the quiet stir
of ladles, the soft clink of bowls
in the next room—
an offering in the making,
a meal as contemplation,
a pause before the world returns.

Outside, the wind moves through bamboo,
and I begin to understand
that the meal is already here,
in the waiting,
in the space between hunger
and gratitude.

Mulberry Tea

In the cup, a leaf falls—

Mulberry, bitter-tart like

memories we try to sweeten.

The steam, a ghost

of summer days, warm wind in your hair,

or maybe not yours, maybe someone else’s.

Who drinks this tea?

Who sips the sky?

In this room, time surrenders,

like the mulberry, soaked, losing itself

in what we want to believe is healing.

Sip. Pause.

The world shrinks, then expands—

an endless ripple of quiet chaos.

We pretend the leaf is wisdom,

whispering secrets

of ancient roots and silkworms,

though we barely listen.

We drink.

The tea, too, forgets its taste.

Soybean Paste with Tofu, Mushrooms, Radish, Red Peppers

A simmering pot,
earth and salt in the air,
soybean paste thick as time,
its smell both ancient and new.

Here, mushrooms float,
velvet caps drinking broth like clouds,
roots tethered to the earth,
or what remains of it.

Tofu, pale and quiet,
absorbs the weight of history,
each cube a silent monk
in the temple of the pot.

Radish—white moons,
sharp, sweet, descending deep,
as if to carve its own path
through what we cannot say.

Red peppers, fire tongues,
flicker at the surface,
tempting the taste to burn,
or maybe cleanse.

We wait, stirring slowly,
the kitchen lit with a heat
that holds more than hunger.

It is a conversation,
this meal,
between what grows beneath
and what rises above.

We consume the world,
one bite at a time,
not knowing if it consumes us,
or if this is how we are made whole.

Jogyesa: A Meditation

Lanterns drift above me,

weightless like prayers,

each one a bright whisper

in the wind’s slow breath.

The world softens here,

beneath Bodhi trees whose leaves

sway with the quiet murmur of Buddha’s name—

a blessing carried by the air.

Incense curls upward,

its smoke like forgotten thoughts,

spiraling toward a sky

that holds no end, no edge.

Chants rise and fall,

first a single voice,

then many, merging into none,

until the silence itself speaks,

a resonance that lingers.

Lotus blooms open wide,

reflected in the pond’s still waters—

time folds into itself,

and the present moment expands,

all paths converging

in the ripples of the pond.

Bare feet touch warm stones,

each step a return

to where it all began—

a journey inward,

marked not by distance,

but by the act of walking.

The temple bells ring out,

their sound a ripple

through the mind,

stirring the stillness,

waking what has been long asleep.

Here, in Jogyesa,

I leave no trace,

just a breath,

a fleeting presence

vanishing like smoke,

like light.

Night Over Cold Buckwheat Noodles

The night is a quiet bowl, 
dark and deep, 
where cold buckwheat noodles rest, 
glimmering like threads of moonlight.  

Steam no longer rises— 
only the soft chill of evening, 
seeping through the broth 
as if winter had kissed it.

I sit alone, 
the streetlights flickering like distant stars, 
each slurp making me think tomorrow means home, 
still far but near in the taste  

of simple things— 
a hint of soy, a bite of radish, 
a sprinkle of seaweed floating 
like the sky reflected.

Outside, the city continues to bustle with cars and buses, 
but here, the meal holds me steady, 
a moment suspended 
between where I've been today
and where I’m going tomorrow.

I take one last bite, 
and in the cold, 
I feel tomorrow's return 
waiting for me, 
just beyond the night.