Category Archives: Poetry

Lost in Thought, a Poem

On trying and finally accepting, the inevitable: DEATH, translated…

On the Day I Dreamt of My Mother

I’d Not Checked the Albums on My Phone to See

If the Buddha Had His Eyes Lowered

If the Background was the Mountains or the Cliffside

Don’t Lie to Me, Just, Come All Out

The Lenses, Too Worldly

Can’t Switch to that Boundary

The Mothers of Others Kept Aging

Becoming Those, Old Yams, Old Taros with the Bearded Roots

Walking Slower, No Need to Rush

Take Your Children & Grandchildren, Dragging Yourself Along that Stroller

In the Early Evenings, the Swallows Returned Back to Springtime

That Stumbling Shadow with the Back Turned Had Always Been Mistaken by Me

That It Shall Be, Returned, to that Familiar Address

The Storyline Shattered, and Crumbled Multiple Times

Slowly I Knew to Hide, so I Can Accompany This One Dream

No Need to Argue, No Need to Tell the News

God Shall Come by, the Eggshell Broken

It’s Best that You’re, Taken Hostage

And Get Hatched and Become Anything Else

What’s Meant to Come in Eventuality, the Crowds Appeared in Black-and-White, Silent in the Freeze Frames

There’s Too Much Logic Underneath the Sun

Circling Oneself, Enveloping Oneself

Using a Lock, to Escape

I am, Out

Walked in a Straight Line with My Own Mother

Don’t Clench My Hands Too Tight, Don’t Rest

And, Don’t Blink

So this is, a man’s, coping with his own mother’s, death, because, of how his mother is, almost dead, and he is finally, allowing the fact of what’s, inevitable, sink into his mind…coping with this, loss that simply can’t be, avoided.

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Filed under Awareness, Because of Love, On Death & Dying, Philosophies of Life, Poetry, Properties of Life, the Finality of Life

Shadows

Translated…

The soul that came out of the body

Of another world

And so, that, is what shadows are, NOT a mere extension of the self in the dim light at all, a brand new way of seeing things here…

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Filed under Awareness, Creative Writing, Perspectives, Poetry

The Ears, a Two-Lined Poem

Translated…

Sneaking into an unknown tunnel

Steal the secrets

And so, that would be a very clear way of describing the organ: ears, wouldn’t it?  And the person was able to express the purpose and the formation of the ear, using just THOSE two simple lines too.

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Filed under Creative Writing, Poetry, Writing

Predictions

Uncertainties About the Future……aren’t We All!!!

spanishwoods

photo by Sylvia photo by Sylvia

Future Isabella, what can you tell us about the coming winter?
Will it be bitter, the bleak days echoing the quiet,
white stillness of the cold?
Or will it be mild and mellow as the oak trees bring
forth acorn tales to be told?

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Filed under Perspectives, Planning for the Future, Poetry, Story-Telling, Values, Writing

Ordering Food, a Poem

The indecisiveness of modern-day man, translated…

I want a tomato cheese burger.

Is the beef from New Zealand or Australia?

Is the tomato fresh?  Is it organic or not?

But, it’s NOT possible, for completely organic foods to exist on this planet.

What?  Don’t you know?  It’s stated online.

Can I get a hot caramel milk tea to go along with my ordered burger?

How about a Lychee Konjac Jelly ice tea?

Can you tell me again, of the promotions today? This biscuit looks nice.

Does it have butter on it?

Oh.

Then, I don’t want the tomato cheese burger now.

Does the veggie ham and egg burger meal include cheese of tater tots?

Who can hold down their “horses” when helping out a customer like this one?  I know I probably would’ve blown up in this person’s face, just make up your mind, man, how H-A-R-D is it, for you, to just PICK something OFF the menus, and, STOP mixing and matching the items already, that, is the problem, when you have too many choices in life.

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Filed under Awareness, Choices, Perspectives, Poetry, Properties of Life

Ramps to the Freeway

Driving On and Off the Sensitive Limbs

Going in and Out Those Complex Systems

And that, would be the PURPOSE of the R-A-M-P-S to the freeways, isn’t it?  It’s a link to someplace you want to be or need to be, and, it’s a passageway you MUST pass through, in order to get to where it is you’re meant to be.

 

 

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Filed under Awareness, Creative Writing, Observations, Poetry, Properties of Life

Next to the Delusion

A requiem of poetry—a prayer for those who’d been hurt, translated…

Tonight, there was the glass lit on fire from the south

Slowly, reflected the eyes of Death

Don’t look into them, the broken rocks flying at high-speed is merely an illusion

The dreams of the propylene filling up on top of the roofs, is also an illusion

The Möbiusband slowly sloped downward

The traffic lights became tilted too: next to the sadness and the sorrows Next to the eyes, slowly, the illusions start to evaporate

You saw how the corners of the island, along the road, they all came here

They all came by, there are more and more invisible underground pipelines that showed up, to show the supports that they have for one another

The sadness, the treasuring, the distant lights turned on

And became the small eyes of the memories of that fateful night

And so, a LOT of people had died because of this explosion, and, this, is someone’s way of working through his sadness and sorrows for the loss experienced by others.

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Filed under Awareness, Coping Mechanisms, Cost of Living, Healing Process, Letting Go, Life, Lives Lost, Loss, News Stories, Observations, Perspectives, Philosophies of Life, Poetry, Properties of Life, Social Awareness

Dung Beetle

A poem, written by Natalia Toledo, translated…

First…

They’d shaped up the dung

Round like the full moon

They’d carried it over their heads

Like vendors who sold foods on the streets

They are finding the bottommost layer of the world

To store and hide those stuff

As if they’re keeping the dung as

A sacred heirloom

Second…

The fires are made from the land layers of the world

A soft leaf fell asleep in my eyes

My shadows are on a march

Trying to appease to my needle-filled exterior, trembling

I’d found a home in a garden

I’d carried a fly on my back, which made me into half-invisible

I have a palm made of leaves

And, everything salute itself to me

And I’d returned that favor with my rancid scent

Third…

I sat, underneath a shadow

My back is a leaf of corn, tilted downward

Sadness, it’d opened up the land

Like when it was tilled for the purpose of planting

The dust of the world

Ground, in my eyes slowly

The aroma given off by the raindrops

Stayed on the edge of the skies, waiting to fall

Fourth…

The world is darkened

The mud overflowed everywhere, rushed toward the oceans

The bluish green sun came, and it’d wiped the men’s eyes

The land absorbed its moisture from the flowers and the plants

A shake, from its crevasse

Born, the very first man

It says here, that these four poems have a special kind of taste of nature.  From the dung beetles, she’d reflected the roles of women in her era, like how the poet carries that natives’ mindset, observing the small insect, and how it’d made her feel.

So, this, is how it goes, from the origins of man, to how we are like the dung beetles, working hard all our lives, and what for?  Are our lives more purposeful than those dung beetles, after all, they ARE, lower order of animals, and, all they care about, are their survivals from day to day, and this, is a metaphor for man (human, that is!!!), after all, we all struggle in our daily living, making ends meet, run around the world like headless chickens, and we just don’t realize, how much we are actually like those lower order of species!

 

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Filed under Cost of Living, Creative Writing, Gender Roles, Issues on Gender, Life, Moods, Emotions, & Feelings, Observations, Poetry, The Observer Effect, Translated Work, Values, Women's Issues

Water Torture

Needing a Break from Taking Care of Demented Elderly Person, in Need of MORE Social Support!!!

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Filed under Dementia/Deterioration of the Mind, Life, Loss, Observations, Old Age, Poetry, Properties of Life

Not Quite Old Enough Yet

Translated…

Often felt that there are still too much fun to be had

Even though, I had been crushed by the years, to the point that I couldn’t even stand up straight anymore

But I still feel

As though right now, I’m still not yet old enough

Look at those big sycamores in the park

Living right next to the noisy streets

Their beards had already grown to the ground now

And they’d still tilted their heads toward the heavens

Wouldn’t believe, and kept touching that slow moving old bull that’s tilling up the land

Whose hairs had thinned out around the neck, from wearing the tilling equipments

And its teeth, other than chewing on some freshly grown grass

Were still staring into space, and it still didn’t feel bored

Just kept dreaming that it was a butterfly that could fly away

That had once kept guard over the dawn, as it’d been through the ups and downs, the highs and lows of its own life

And that man, who’s an elderly, had finally been returned, BACK to his childhood state

Drank down on that aged alcohol that’s too spicy for him to handle, and still puts on a smile, to greet all who came

Even though, he getting murdered little by little by the passing seconds of time

And, there are a TON of bullet holes on the outside of his physique

All those ancient buildings that had weathered through the years

Still stood tall and proud, without an inkling of fear

And that, is how one should FACE old age, with bravery, knowing that death is coming close, but still doesn’t waver or scare, and that, is truly, aging with grace.

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Filed under Coping Mechanisms, Cost of Living, Creative Writing, Lessons, Life, Maturation, Poetry, Translated Work, Values, Wake Up Calls