Pink buds as bright As the sun, Sprouting like a Bird hatches, Tough as warriors
Poem
Dress
my grandma has a blue cotton dress that she wears at home it has a different scent every day the smell of each night’s dinner the breeze from a brisk walk outside or the dampness of the air during rainy season the smell of orchids from the florists’ shop, pastries from the bakery across the street, freshly cut melon for dessert, steaming morning coffee the scents of the lotions she uses and her shampoo stitched deep inside the span of threads within the fabric of her blue dress her closet is a fusion of attire eye-catching golf shirts in jolting colors button-up tops in solid shades a long, straight dress in sunset plaid vertical stripes running up and down pastel blouses she likes modest styles with classy hues shoes without adornments, elegant traces there’s a Korean proverb, “Clothes are wings” that means clothes make the person my grandma says clothes will show who you are because people will judge by the first thing they see how magical it is that we can change how somebody first interprets us just by the variation of simple cloth
January 14th in Asheville. Year 2023.
No one is awake, and the silence is so absolute that you can hear the universe rearrange itself outside my window. It is blue-gray and a moth-eaten blanket of snow barely covers everything. The wind whips whistles whines ROARS. It is the bleak midwinter, and I the only thing alive. I lift the blind and the trees rise up like the petrified bodies of so many crones from times past. They dance a ballet with the windsong— paying homage to the ashy blue sky. The snow falls and is still falling turning the world to something no one will ever know. How frightened were our ancestors when this storm broke above them? Did they think the sun had forsaken them? Had it? The wind stills. The concert is over, at least for now. I feel the sun begin, quietly, to rise. A door closes downstairs, and the day begins.
Night
The moon glances over at you as if to tell a secret, It whispers of the world coming alive, The stars shining, The quiet symphony, And the distant beauty of it all.
Morning Love
Out my window Whispering winds wander And dance upon the morning’s might Sunshine streams rivers of light through my bedroom window Out my window I listen to the sounds of silent mountains I listen to the songs of silent birds I listen to the songs of silent voices I listen to the songs of things unheard
What Poetry Isn’t
Poetry is like how sometimes, if you try hard enough, for just a second you can see a spiderweb, in the sunlight. After that, it’s gone, no matter how hard you look. Poetry is chaos written out on paper. Poetry is what might happen, if the universe took a pencil in hand and wrote something. Poetry is a song not meant to be sung. Poetry is the feeling of a sunset or a sunrise. Or maybe it’s not.
My Sneakers
My sneakers, sneakers, sneakers They call me every day So I can put them on Hooray, Hooray! Oh sneakers, I’m coming, I’m coming I have to put my socks on first
The Onlooker
Smoke the only trace Of its existence Surging up to be one with the clouds Swirling shapes that remind of something That we can’t seem to place Bringing tears to the eyes That should have already been there Embers, once flaring with vitality Now ash as they gently land on our Ignorant shoulders There is no line between The: Burnt Burning Untouched Reaching down without avail Staring at the ravaged Yet we can’t Seem to tell our bodies, tell our legs To move down the side of our mountain Lush green Against the backdrop of red seas and black sand Hollowed out inside By none other than ourselves As the cracks start to appear and we Inch further up Away Forever the onlooker
I am Here
I am from a place not of leprechauns, rainbows, and pots of gold, but instead a teenaged sky, moody with deluges of rain, moments later opening to periwinkle heavens and effervescent light, scurrying clouds away. I am from salty, rocky beaches, gray water too cold to swim in (even though we do every New Year’s Day). I am from cobalt suil amhain, freckles and loud, accented, argumentative voices. Stories from my Nana of cherry buns at Bewley’s Cafe on Grafton Street, and sugary milky tea. Boiled cabbage and meaty bacon. I am Here I am from infinite kings named Richard and Henry. From staying up late reading Harry Potter. Hard, still-warm pencils and the flap, flap of long volumes. From the Beatles, Freddie Mercury, The Rolling Stones. I am from mountains of hard books and hard rock and deep-fried haddock with chips, malt vinegar, and minty mushy peas. I am from these two different islands disputing the same land for centuries. Easter Rising, Bloody Sunday, the Troubles. The queen and the taoiseach. Dublin and London. But I am not there but here. I am Here Eating tacos with cotija at my house, ice pops on the deck, year round. A banana tree in my backyard. Palm trees on my horizon. Only two seasons (summer and inferno) boiling heat in August, warm breezes in the winter, boba and nigiri just a block away, golden stars adorning the grimy concrete. Everyone wants to be a star. Everyone is from somewhere else. I am here, I am there, I am from dozens of family members, my friends for life. They are here, they are there like a pod of dolphins, like silvery-white iridium scattering the solar system.
Just One
You are just one apple on a whole apple tree but the smallest seed will make the biggest difference eventually
Automat by Edward Hopper
It doesn’t look like an automat, just a building that reeks of steel and machinery and aching backs, with a corner in which a woman sits at a table, invisible to everyone, scowling into her cup of tea. She had given up on pounding on doors long ago, knowing that nobody would let her in; she depended on her green jacket for comfort, occasionally peeking down, past the yellow banister, to the dark room from which she heard laughter. They did the best they could, said one brown lock of hair that curved around her shoulder, tickling her neck—but the other said in her ear, Go downstairs, and throw your fruit at the ungrateful people in the basement. The bowl of fruit appeared, but she kept still and made no comment—she heard nothing, only the sound of the rain outside, and the teacup against the blue table, and the moths banging against the flickering yellow lights. The laughing people came upstairs and stopped in front of her table. Still chuckling, they said, Give us a smile! Give us a smile!
Explosion in a Shingle Factory
The stairs collapsed beneath her and as she fell, she prayed for her body not to be seen, not painted by a brush, she saw the sun, then the moon, nighttime descended as splinters of wood flew into her eyes, poured out of her mouth, sinking past an assortment of floating objects— a banjo is her head, her torso is a Picasso painting, her legs are brooms, sweeping the air, her arms are cut-up cloth. Curious eyes peek over the crumbling banister, which a disembodied yet still whole hand holds on to, but soon the skin peels away, leaving only bone, which also disappears—everything is still and dark, alone and quiet, somewhere the nude is still falling.
