Fortune Cookie Messages

Introduction

The idea came to me, as so many great ones have, when I was finishing a fine repast in a Chinese restaurant. Being the traditional type, I accepted the complimentary fortune cookie that comes with the check. Crushing the stale orange-cinnamon shell with one had, I popped the pieces into my mouth and unfolded the tiny white slip of paper. I felt like the fisherman who eagerly shucks an oyster in the hopes of finding a pearl, and instead uncovers nothing but a few grains of sand. "Interesting things will happen to you," it read. This certainly wasn't a very promising start. After several more of these disappointing after-dinner rituals, I resolved to do something about it. Certainly a country that had given us Confucius, Zen Buddhism and the only man-made structure visible from space deserved fortune cookie messages which were, well, interesting. Messages people would read and say "Hey, that's neat!" These would not be trite one-liners, they would be little poems -each with a message unto itself. They would be sad and serious, light and amusing, simple and esoteric. All would be somewhat didactic. Most importantly, they would be poetic, prophetic and aesthetic. The more that I thought about it, the more that I like it. I could have decided to make this a life-long endeavor, to write one or two a day for the rest of my existence, so that future generations would never have to see the same fortune twice. I passed on this option, however. What follows is merely a brief sampling of what I have endeavored to start. Those writers willing to pick up the torch have my blessing.

I} Those people whose thoughts depart from their lips
    Quick as the lashes from taskmasters’ whips
    Find that some thoughts are better unspoken
    And sometimes silence is better unbroken.

II} The prisoner counts the blocks of his cell
     Alone is a world he knows all too well
     So sunk in self-pity he can not see
     That the window’s ajar and he’s long been free.

III} Life can be sweet and fate can be kind
       The briefly unhappy drunkard may find
       If some small repentance he does utter
       And solemnly pours his drink in the gutter.

IV} The realms of the mind are wondrous indeed
       With fantasies there to fill every need
       But stones are not mortared with stardust and dew
       And all that is not all too soon fades from view.

V} Only a pessimist has the notion
      That he is an arc on an endless ocean
      Winds blast away, waves assail every side
      Yet no one need be a slave to the tide.

VI} Harsh words to the soul are a fierce monsoon
       Or softly splash like a shower in June
      Shaking the trees or spraying the dew
      It all depends on one's point of view.

VII} A glimmering pile of gold on a hill
        Will only for a brief will sit still
         If the first man who passes walks on by
         It will not escape the second man's eye.

VIII} People grow old and the years pass them by
          As they wistfully gaze at the candlelit sky
          Half-crying, half-trying, feet stuck to the ground
          While friends, good fortune and riches abound.

IX} That which the idle call comfort and ease
        Eats at the years like a kind of disease
        As blue skies grow black, and green leaves turn brown
        The days slip away as the sun goes down.

X} The lazy old hound will not fetch a stick
      Nor perform any sort of a trick
      And a horse can be made to gallop away
      But the farmer will slap his mule all day.

XI} Most awesome of all, the power of thought
       To draw from darkness the hope man has sought
       Changing black, swirling mists that loom and affright
       To billowy clouds aglow with dawn's light.

XII} Behind are failure and dreams long-dismissed
         For those who look back the past never is
         Though they walk many miles, for each step tread
         Slide back three more every turn of the head.

XIII} Friendships neglected are leaves of a tree
          Which grows by a pond known as Memory
          Where they wither and die on this lonesome heath
          Then silently sink to the quagmire beneath.

XIV} Cursing the waves, whose incessant crashing
          Batters the cliffs with relentless thrashing
          Is like the squirrel, with small head askew
          Cursing the mountain for blocking his view.

XV} Faint, flickering fears and shadows half-known
        Can quickly be vanquished once one is shown
        How easy it is to sweep through this horde
        Using only a lantern and seldom a sword.

XVI} Rage bounces back like a hatchet thrown hard
          Against a stone wall, which remains unmarred
          When hurled at those who could not care less
           If they have caused someone any distress.

XVII} Too many serenades lost in the wind
            Issue from hearts that are hopelessly pinned
            To those who are always a source of despair
            Who just do not know, or just do not care.

XVIII} High on the mountain the white flowers grow
             With pink ones above them and red ones below
             Which all look the same when stomped or cut down
             For grass is still green, and dust is still brown.

XIX} One stroke with an axe will not fell a tree
          No matter how stout and strong one may be
          Unless he is willing to toil and sweat
          He will hear evermore the words "not yet."

XX} The inkbrush which once seemed almost alive
         May only need but a dip to revive
         That river of prose which from it once flowed
         To a fallow field and eloquence sowed.

XXI} A monument crafted with skill and pride
          May last a lifetime but on every side
          Stand towers, castles and cities gleaming
          With brilliance of those who never stopped dreaming.

XXII} A blade in a sheath need not be a threat
            Only a warning to who would forget
            That even the snake, who crawls through the dirt
            Will let loose his fangs at the slightest hurt.

XXIII} Beneath the clear creek, passing the ages
             Free of frustrations turned into rages
             A thousand small stones in silt make their den
             At peace with the current which sweeps over them.

XXIV} Who plucks the daisy serves as its bearer
             Though wishing she had a blossom fairer
             Such as a rose she could forever clutch.

XXV} The captain recruiting a soldier at dawn
            Doubles his efforts until he has drawn
            A small force by noon, an army at night
            That pitches its camp with conquest at sight.

XXVI} Tight leaves unfurling, he spreads through the air
             Not too long pausing or dwelling on where
             Those tall trees have gone that once ruled this lot
             Who slumber unseen beneath this same spot.

XXVII} Ten coins in a purse soon make their escape
              To render their erstwhile owner agape
              At what has become of his fortune of yore
 While ten coins at home soon generate more.


XXVIII} A belly full-fed should not feel the squeeze
                Of a small morsel surrendered to please
                A starving stray dog who somberly crawls
                Through dank city streets, sniffing cracks in the walls.

XXIX} A ship that sets out with port still in sight
Then swiftly succumbs to a spiraling plight
 Might have sailed on for years, as she was meant
 Had she been mended before being sent.

XXX} The angry fool hurling stone after stone
At the fiend in the pond, as yet unknown
When pausing a moment for reflection
Is bound to make an unpleasant connection.

XXXI} Under a mantle of heartache and tears
Dreamers' lost diamonds lay buried for years
  Firmly withstanding the hammer of time
Patiently sparkling, forever sublime.

XXXII} A lovely oasis glimpsed in the morning
 Dries up in the desert without warning
 Leaving the wayfarer and his blind trust
 Condemned to spend his last hours in the dust.

XXXIII} Smoldering sentiments clouding the eyes
  Consume the fuel on which envy relies
  And fanned by bellows of realization
  Kindle a bonfire of inspiration.

XXXIV} Chores that every man swears will be finished
   Before tomorrow's light is diminished
   Cannot distinguish the moon from the sun
   And day after day are never begun.

XXXV} That bundle in the poor traveler's pack
  Is a reminder, this pain in his back
  Of a wrong he clearly does not recall
  Why does he carry it with him at all?

XXXVI} Doing the work that is never complete
   Is neither inviting nor fighting defeat
   Though one hand can count the favors returned
   He who has given is he who has earned.

XXXVII} Sifting through sand in the bed of a stream
    On a windy hill in a distant dream
    Ceaselessly searching, one should be aware
    Time travels faster than water or air.

XXXVIII} Some will maintain the stubborn delusion
     On the circular path of confusion
     That somewhere lies a simple solution
     Requiring no work to find resolution.

XXXIX} A tumultuous world, battered by change
   Is often predictable, often strange
   While some things vanish and others endure
   Foresight can help make the future secure.

XL} How dull are the lives of people who see
         Fruition in toiling endlessly
         To sit by a brook, composing a rhyme
         Is not necessarily wasting time.

XLI} Crystalline falls which humbly deliver
          Foaming loads from the mouth of the river
          Forever whisper an ancient story
         And need to hear no talk of their glory.

XLII} Whether or not he reaches the summit
The climber has no fear he will plummet
And knows that nothing can ever compare
To the feeling that comes to those who dare.

XLIII} To duly request and duly receive
A much-needed meal or a small reprieve
If nothing else more, should serve to convince
Those skeptics still hungry for evidence.

XLIV} The twirling descent of withered oak leaves
That calmly collect in forest floor sheaves
Tells all who listen to solemnly strive
To make use of time while they are alive.

XLV} As all of the world in a twelve-hour space
           Softly reposes in evening's embrace
           Across the seas are millions of eyes on
           The gleam of dusk beyond the horizon.

XLVI} Pride of the painter, who passed countless hours
             Splashing on skyline and dabbing on flowers
  She hangs aloft in a great, gilded frame
A glimpse of reverie born from the same.

XLVII} The small wooden cart with its bulging load
 Bounces along the precarious road
 Splintering wheels portentously rumbling
 'Til into the street its wares go tumbling.

XLVIII} When sweeping storms wreak bleak devastation
               Tearing the house right from its foundation
  Rebuilding, each day, the wise will make haste
  Mourning 'til evening is time laid to waste.

XLIX} Meticulously astrologers track
Systems and cycles from centuries back
So those who may scorn, accept or refute
Can find no fault with the way they compute.

L} Before is the door to the greatest school
     Where virtue and vice contend for their rule
     And banners of fate still wait to unfold
     Glorious happenings yet unforetold.