I’m Thinking About a Garden in Shanghai

I’m thinking about

a Chinese garden somewhere in old Shanghai

they call it Yu,

pleasure-they say

-it is said to have meant, from the ancient Ming Dynasty;

ancient pool or pond,

winds through nine corners

of superstitious greens and blues

as sculptured animals some mythic- some true seem to glance

their stony eyes

towards you;

a dragon’s sculptured, fiercesome head

seems to wish that you might be dead

while to the north in Beijing

in a wine cup of jade green

the shadow of a rich Chinese Queen

eats delicacies

with chopsticks of gold

until she’s had more than enough;

I’m thinking about a Chinese lady, so delicately beautiful,

so strongly dainty,

a face that hides

what she has seen in her few years the story told inside

each of her tears

of her hope and dream

for a new life

of love and laughter free from strife;

the garden in Yu recalls the first pair when only sunshine filled the air,

the pleasured paradise so fair, of hope for a future

free from despair;

bamboo motifs

of lovely grace

a lovely, simple painted face,

a zig-zag bridge of many turns while wisteria and camellias bloom,

where Marco Polo traded silk,

and stuccoed walls painted white as milk;

Cherry trees drop petals in the Oriental breeze,

and Chinese maples,

colors of delicate tracery,

reflected in the waters still

of green ponds of peace;

sculptured rocks that tell

a tale so carefully placed,

and the gate is cautiously guarded by an age-old cassia tree;

I am thinking about a barber in Suzhou,

who’s weaving scissors

upon a thousand heads,

he smiles at everyone

who walks into his shop,

the name of all

he knows by heart his haircuts all-

a work of art;

the garden stones

so carefully laid,

in the most auspiciously chosen place;

the doorways laid out meticulously to cast

a shadow of beneveloncy from the past;

upon the dynasty

of Chinese kings and queens to be,

a lovely weeping willow tree;

silently cries amidst

the painted silken skies,

all plants arranged

perfectly harmonized;

The Forbidden City

and Great ominous Wall, reminds us of freedom’s call;

but in the garden freedom rules

the gardener works

with his gardening tools;

the teahouse recalls,

an ancient Chinese song,

a story of forgotten love and of bicycle

rickshaws,

a painted Chinese female dove;

I’m thinking about a hippy I knew

whose painted Chinese pictures

filled the room-

who told a story

of compromise, of fearful alibis

and lies

who finds his peace in

the dream of the east

whose flowered pictures

gave the eyes

a sumptuous colorful feast

I’m thinking about

Philadelphia, PA,

of the people who live

so very far and distant away, from Chinese people

in a world on the other side,

while painted murals line the skies,

while flowing rivers

are slowly meandering by,

the same latitude

as Old Shanghai;

The Shanghai Ming garden hasn’t much changed,

five hundred years

it’s remained much the same, while it’s mysteries

we try

to somehow explain;

I’m thinking about a Chinese day,

of gardens, ponds

and painted birds of hope, and birds of prey,

of Chinese letters painted black,

of flowered trails

of days long back,

of roads that carried golden silk,

of roofs that dip upward like an ancient ship;

I’m thinking about a Paradise,

when only peace and laughter

fills Chinese skies, with only love and truth

a garden of peaceful pleasure like the Garden of Yu,

that slowly extends its hand

from millenniums gone by to plant its peaceful garden

forever earth wide;

I’m thinking about China all week long,

I’m thinking about

a new peaceful song.

End of poem