Published Poems by

W. Wayne Lin






(for my 84 year old poetry teacher, who lives with Parkinson's, Jerry Ball)

Published in Rossmore News

July 8, 2015



     A message said you are thinking of me,
     and wonder how did my surgery go?
     If there is anything you can do, feel free
     to contact you. You would really like to know.

     With your Parkinson's, you have to keep
     footsteps short. Balance is job number one.
     You need a ride to go any place, in and schlep
     out of the car is easier said than done.

     Hear you want to help me in any way
     you can, reminds me of the dire
     story of a blind and a deaf stump in a fray,
     baffle and struggle out of the blazing fire.

     I erased the message, it vanished in the air.
     That's a long time ago, the voice is still there.








Published in Taiwan News

July 10, 2014


     (In the world we live in today, hundreds of conflicts a day:

demonstrations, protests, clashes, collisions, confrontations,

battles, combat and wars.  A picture is a thousand words.

A poem is a thousand pictures.)

       Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.
       Burnt, charred, raging fire, wounded mourn.
       Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.

       Farmers run for cover, ruined and broke.
       The plough mars body and soul, bruised and torn.
       Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.

       Politicians debate media. Croak, grunt and choke.
       Students, parents on the street and a new born.
       Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.

It drives rich men to the wall and stoke.
poor men to the floor, no place no thorn.
Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.


Philosophers calm each soul and every folk.
No place to occupy, nothing to scorn.
Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.

Inching forward, tortoises crawl and poke.
Onward, onward toward the finish morn.
Shrapnel, ashes, scars and smoke.
Run, run against a million bullets, thousand strokes.








Published in Rossmoor News

December 23, 2014



What to clean up next?  Boxes and boxes of
tour books, brief guides to geography, cool
cultural highlights, history, places you love
to see, to eat, to visit. The dumpster is full.

It’s late, frogs still keep their tempos after
all work is done. Naked bookcases, empty room
reminds, pages and pages of fading laughter
and smiles remain. But, how to scrub and broom?

Sounds like before, frogs tried to compose a new
piece, the same as years ago, unfinished flair
rehearse every night, pace the rhythm to
raindrops. Opening night is still up in the air.

Young frogs keep trying new tunes, never
changing, fading stars, up there, as ever.









Published in Rossmoor News

October 29, 2014


When you have time please come home sometime.
Over the mountain in the valley through the gate,
follow the winding road to the top, breeze anytime.
The home is not the old house that springs your fate.

Someday you'll know why we move through each alley
as a raft, moors in mire, mud and slough, a holm
next to the shrub, the hill and the whole valley.
It is we call home that was never your home.

A resting place midway to the end of cloud.
Waves find its shore, a shelter just a hutch.
Sow and plow, dig and till to make you proud.
Simple, humble there is a plan and no crutch.

Laurels wither and rose petals crumple.
In the wind, graying hair tousle and rumple.








Published in New Hope Chinese Cancer Care Foundation 1st Anniverary Edition

September 2014



Life is a square old folks say.
Sharp and edges everywhere.
A must to grind each night and day.
Pray no corner anywhere.

Life is no shape and no price.
Like sunshine and moon light,
clouds, wind, sweet sour bitter and spice.
Sunrise, sunset and night.

Life is a circle I will say.
Revolve, gyrate and roll.
Spin, twist and loop a whirling stray.
One round and back to stroll.

Sing and dance, dawn and eventide.
Frolic mirth finds your ground.
Life is jolly. Fly, sail and glide.
It's forever round and round.







Published in CAAR newsletter

October 2016

Eluding the search beams from lighthouse, I sneak
across the slushy and sallow sands, hush my
muttering tune of melancholy, ignore a streak
of misfortune, I land under the darkest sky.

It was years ago, I thought I was
an intrepid explorer, absolutely able
to withstand the mournful sea, the cause
of swelling onus, deluded fantasy and fable.

I swim right through the strait, harbor my wrath
against the stream, the drift and the wind.
I find my way to plunge for the true path,
with no cheer or bugle, only throb and grind.

Leaving behind the bellowing rage and howling sea,
I trickle with the tides, murmur my eternal plea.







Published in CAAR newsletter

October 2016


I breed.
I torment.
There is no end.

We discreate.
We embroil.
There is no truce.

We wipe out all crops.
We eat up everything in our way.
There is no peace.

Famine, starvation, misery,
not my problems.
I have to satisfy my need.
There is nothing above my greed.

I am born to inflame, 
to swarm,
to tear things apart,
to aggregate,
to destroy.


My right, I claim.
Others, I frame and blame.
Never apologize, 
no remorse, no shame.
Bible recorded,
history paused,
let it be.
I am born to get what I aim.


I am born to inflame.





Canada Goose


Published in CAAR newsletter

October 2016


I lead my goslings in a line,
warn them with hissing sounds,

do not fall,
watch out for big birds, 
and humans above all.

My parents came with 
lots of relatives and friends from Canada,
when they were young and small.

Golf course, clean air, 
the ponds, the lakes,
food, water, so plentiful.
No reason to fly back.

Everyone is having a ball.

Watch my kids in a promenade,
tiptoeing behind me.
I wonder will they know
where they are from?


So I Was Hired


March 2015


(I was quite ill for 18 months, but I came back with a renewed spirit. After 36 years as a publisher of 11 magazines, I realize sometimes, publisher is an ambiguous term, so I describe myself as a chef.)


I was a chef for 36 years, cooked up
11 dishes in repertoire. And I got whupped
and burnt and fired many times,
they said I was too slow,
my time wasn't worth a dime.

But I need to support my

growing family, they said they don't

need me to buy the good ingredients,
that's too basic. I said I know how to use pot
and wok and cut every corner to fry
and cook cheaply, they said that is

just common sense.

To hold on to my job, they told me
"stupid, it is all in the presentation."
and I need to learn how to pitch and plea
these 11 dishes by segmentation,
direct mail, audio, video and radio,

free sampling, promote on the internet, sustentation
in stores and newsstands, and yes, television,
otherwise, I will be fired and on my knee.

I was a slow learner, got sick
because the kitchen was too hot.
I had to take a leave of absence
without my pay for 18 months. And I got
hired this morning again, they picked me,
and will try me for the last slot.

Maybe I can try to cook another dish and more.
They told me all along, life is more than
11 dishes. I have heard it before and bore.
But, I told them I determine to do all I can.
So they hire me to man the kitchen floor.
They do not think a chef can still fry pan
after 36 years, almost all burnt-out and sore,
and I better perform and score
before they show me the door.
They warned me do not rest on my oars,
because the kitchen is a war.

So I was hired.