Handy's Time Record Player

The Nail

Sun, 25 Oct 2026 12:00:00 +0800

Four new tires,

one week on the road,

and they meet a nail.

The carmaker did the math so well,

it left no spare.

But life has its own luck,

and its own way of arranging things.

Only where things are too full

does it make a small hole.

Then for years and years,

not one nail.

Shunde. In the car park, a tire changed only last week quietly lets out its breath; life likes to leave a small gap just when things are fullest.

Hotpot

Sat, 24 Oct 2026 12:00:00 +0800

One pot,

a thin wall down the middle,

two broths,

each bubbling its own way.

The little ones reach in with chopsticks,

the grown-ups reach in,

the grey-haired reach in too.

Whichever side you love,

you can reach it.

Across that thin wall,

the steam

rises together.

A family hotpot. One pot, two broths, with only a thin wall between; it turns out we need not share one taste to stay warm together.

Stillness

Fri, 23 Oct 2026 12:00:00 +0800

Two hundred years and more ago,

someone fell into the canal.

Boat after boat went by,

and none of them stopped.

When we are wound too tight,

the world narrows

to three feet of water before the bow.

Today I lay down my oar.

The shade net sifts the sunlight thin,

a fan turns slowly,

and a table waits on the grass

for someone in no hurry.

Beyond those three feet,

there were banana trees all along,

and the whole wide sky.

However long the winter,

the wind still comes

across the river.

Shunde, Dashan Island. Wound too tight, we see only a narrow strip of water; one idle afternoon gives you back the sky.

Turning

Thu, 22 Oct 2026 12:00:00 +0800

It lies in my palm,

small.

Two aluminium caps

hold a ring of steel,

a slender shaft standing in the middle.

It has never turned,

like a heart

that has not yet learned to beat.

When the current knocks,

it will begin to turn,

not asking where.

A brushless DC motor prototype, just put together and not yet powered; every long road begins with a first turn not yet taken.

Relay

Wed, 21 Oct 2026 12:00:00 +0800

He will only be the red car,

tongue out,

racing to be first.

The rusty tow truck

is too slow, he says, too clumsy.

The paint on its nose

has chipped away in places,

every chip a race he won.

I was like that once.

I thought whoever came first

would never grow old.

Watching again beside him,

I see the red car grow old too,

new cars going past it

one by one.

My eyes begin to wander:

to the tow truck,

to the ones who mend the cars,

to the ones standing by the track.

He still wants the red car to win.

So do I.

So let him run first,

as fast as he can.

One day

he will rest his hand

on the back of someone else's car

and give it a gentle push.

Shunde. A little red race car with chipped paint, on a white building-block board; the young run only for the finish, and learn much later that every finish line is a starting line kept for someone else.

Fits the Hand

Tue, 20 Oct 2026 12:00:00 +0800

The first bowl

was a shell,

a handful of clay.

Eat first;

the rest could wait.

Then bowls were dressed in gold,

and what they held mattered less

than whose hands

held them.

White porcelain, so clean,

broke at one careless touch.

The steel bowl fell

and only rang,

one small bright note.

We feared the breaking, the weight,

and things

we could not see,

so we changed the bowl again.

This one is a quiet grey,

with one round handle.

The grown-ups call it light,

and strong,

and dear.

The child says nothing,

lifts it with one hand,

and eats it clean,

no help at all.

Bowls will change again.

Let them be anything,

so long as small hands

can reach them.

Shunde. A child's titanium bowl with one small handle; bowls have been shell and gold, porcelain and steel, and the one that stays is never the dearest, only the one that best knows the hand that holds it.

The Drum

Sun, 18 Oct 2026 12:00:00 +0800

The drum keeps its silence,

yet in one stretched hide it holds

the leap of the lion, the short, quiet power of a fist, the swiftness of flying feet.

In Foshan the days are never hurried;

beat by gentle beat,

they fall into a rhythm all their own.

Ronggui. Before the Beidi Temple a great drum rests, and even in its silence it seems to be listening for a beat.

Waiting

Sat, 17 Oct 2026 12:00:00 +0800

No one has come yet.

On the lawn

every little table has its lamp lit,

like stars

that came down early.

A few balloons

sway gently

beside the stools.

Nothing new has been spoken yet;

the dusk arrives first

and takes the front row.

Before a product launch, the lamps on the lawn are lit first; the guests have not come yet, and every beginning first learns to wait.

To Fly

Fri, 16 Oct 2026 12:00:00 +0800

It was once the costliest dream,

its doors opening to the sky

as if to fly.

Then the dream was taken apart,

piece by piece,

and people reached for every one.

The parts have scattered

to faraway places.

A heart that wanted to fly,

even taken apart,

is still on its way.

A friend's HiPhi. Once the costliest dream, now worth more in pieces than whole; a dream can come apart and every piece still be of use.

Autumn

Sat, 26 Sep 2026 12:00:00 +0800

The grown-ups hurry up, step by step,

to catch the sunset at the top.

The child comes down, step by step,

in no hurry at all.

Autumn is right by his feet,

blushing red,

waiting for him.

Maofeng Mountain. The maples along the stone steps have turned red; we keep hurrying toward the heights, while autumn settles, step by step, at our feet.

Groundwork

Tue, 08 Sep 2026 12:00:00 +0800

From up high,

a little digger

is scooping at an empty lot.

The air has turned a little cold,

yet new factories

keep standing up, one by one.

Some buy the ground beneath their feet

and hold it tight in their hands;

some borrow a stretch of time

and wait to see.

Tall ones, low ones,

saying nothing,

each keeping its own door.

The haze lifts slowly.

Tall and low,

their shadows long and short,

they share the same sun.

Yunlu Town, Shunde, seen from above. However cold the season, someone is still laying foundations; bought or rented, tall or low, each finds its footing, and slowly their shadows fall long or short.

Peck

Sat, 05 Sep 2026 12:00:00 +0800

A woodpecker

that pecks no tree,

only light.

Tap, and tap,

on wood,

on leather,

slow and exact.

It says very little:

just one beam of light,

thin, so thin.

Thin enough

for one thing done well.

Shenzhen. LaserPecker, the “Woodpecker” of laser cutters, works with one thin beam of light; good things hide in focus and restraint.

Childhood

Sun, 23 Aug 2026 12:00:00 +0800

The noon sun is too strong;

I step in under a shed.

I look up,

and the iron frame holds a picture:

a pink Ferris wheel,

cabin by cabin,

hung with white clouds.

All these years

it has kept turning slowly,

in no hurry at all,

as if it knew

someone would look up.

Jiangmen. Hiding from the noon sun under a shed in an old park, I looked up, and there was the Ferris wheel of an '80s childhood; we keep walking on, while some things stay, turning slowly, until we look up.

Splashing

Sun, 05 Jul 2026 12:00:00 +0800

By the pool, a mushroom

is raining a little rain.

Hugging a small dinosaur,

the children splash about in it,

laughing louder than the water.

The pool is shallow;

the summer is deep.

Those who swim far, far out

were probably like this when they were small:

first, they learned to laugh.

Our neighbourhood pool, children splashing. However far they swim one day, it all begins with a shallow pool and a burst of laughter.

Once a Sea

Sat, 20 Jun 2026 12:00:00 +0800

These mountains

once lay under the sea.

Fish swam over their shoulders,

and they did not know

they would be mountains.

Slowly the sea drew back,

and slowly they rose,

standing in a row,

in the mist, each quieter than the one before.

Now at their feet

there is a little pool of blue,

as if the sea had come back

to look at them.

Yangshuo. Behind the pool, a row of karst peaks; they lay a long time on the floor of the sea, and then they rose as mountains.

The Future

Sat, 30 May 2026 12:00:00 +0800

The light turns red,

and I stop.

Beyond the windscreen,

tower after tower

grows toward the sky.

The city runs so fast,

as if the future

could not wait, and came early.

I wait just one minute.

The light turns green,

and I am in the future too.

Shenzhen, a red light one morning. The city runs as if the future had come early, and even the minute spent waiting is moving forward.

Off Duty

Sat, 04 Oct 2025 12:00:00 +0800

The sun puts away its light

and goes home.

An orange glow stays along the sky,

like a lamp left on.

On the hilltop a few windmills,

small as they are,

turn, and turn,

taking up the evening wind.

Tomorrow morning

they will hand the sky

back to the sun.

Qingyuan, sunset from a ridge. The sun goes home at ease while the windmills on the hilltop keep turning; no one has to shine all the time.

Full Moon

Fri, 03 Oct 2025 12:00:00 +0800

The bridge lifts only half a circle;

the other half

it leaves for the river to draw.

People walk across

and see only the stones beneath their feet.

Step back to the bank,

and there is the half in the water.

A thousand years,

and it has never been less than whole.

Qingyuan. By the river, a stone bridge a thousand years old lifts only half a circle and leaves the other half to the water; wholeness was never ours to complete alone.