Mei-Ling The Courtesan

Outside the Inn Of The Golden Dragon
Wu-Ti gazes at Mei-Ling the courtesan
Her figure, embraced by the moonlight
is a stolen silhouette
on a narrow bridge
under which flows
the River Huang




Mei-Ling rose from her divan as the sun began its inexorable descent into the Huang river. She gazed abstractedly at her reflection in the mirror. The mirror was of ornate design. Jade dragons played along its golden radius which tapered to an ivory handle intended to replicate a willow tree, the dragons cavorting in the branches above. The mirror was a gift from a Kalmuck chieftan. She smiled at the memory. It was a bitter sweet smile. The Mongol had proven in Mei-Lings eyes to be quite formidable, as he was one of only two men she had not been able to tame, to bend to her will, and of course as with any woman, this fascinated her.


In the chamber of Mei-Ling the courtesan lay many treasures, most of them gifts from suitors past and present. There were diamonds from an African prince, rubies from a Hindu raja, but none were as valuble as the Mongol chieftans love, after all what treasure is as precious as the one you cannot possess?! As the river began to swallow the golden orb, Mei-Ling began the many duties that comprised the maintenance of the Inn Of The Golden Dragon.

She could hear the evening rain so common at this time of year beginning its gentle dance. She opened the doors that led out to the narrow bridege that traversed the river and walked out to greet the night. She stopped halfway along the bridge and gazed out onto the river and the countryside beyond. She could feel the the southern wind blowing softly jasmine scented petals. They caressed the courtesans face gently through the rain. The rain mingling with her tears allowed her a sanctuary her pride would otherwise not permit. The child, a boy child, taken from her against her will, she will never see again. She had been standing on this very bridge yesterday as she watched the ox cart carry her son into a future she no longer had a part in, the Mandarin had seen to that. Wo-man had played his role perfectly, the cache of opium already en route to the western province of Szechuan before the dust of the cart wheels had settled on the road, the illicit cargo one more profitable buisness deal in a history etched in shame and perfidy.


The cherry blossoms fall gracefully to the ground
and as they do
one looks up at barren branches
that once held so much promise
and reflects on the coming of winter

Rite Of Passage

A head full of drink , the sun rises before you lighting the trail ahead
Tomorrows promise, traded for the tales and revelry of yesterday
All the wistfull memories of people whose names you once claimed to hold sacred
now just a silver river flowing from your tongue
A cat sitting in a window watches your departure with ancient wisdom
above it, a womans silhouette appears suddenly
her scent still on your fingertips
the taste of love still on your lips
Her tears fall staining the windowsill
Her heart aches with all the sorrow of women down through the ages
You keep moving forward somehow
knowing that as sure as the stars and the moon light your way
by and by the wind will blow her name to you
In time you will come to measure your wisdom by this
Rite Of Passage