Category Archives: Poetry

Birds of, Faces

On how we are, trapped, by our own, fates, destined, to repeat that same, cycle, again, and again, and again, day after day, after day, after day, after, day…translated…


The Birds, not Measured by the Flocks or Singularly, but a Singular, a, Bundle of, the Mountains, the Lakes, or even, a Day.————The Birds, They No Longer Wanted to Live in the Measurements of, Humans Again.

A Bird, it May Not be a, Bird, But that Heart.  A Heart that Falls Downward…………All Things that Came to Fall, Will Be Mistaken as being able to Fly, Especially for Birds.

Birds, When They’re in Flight, Lose the Quantitative Measurement, Along with Their Forms of, Being Assigned as, Birds

So, what you see, isn’t, what actually, is, things aren’t what they appeared to be, and yet, we often get too caught up in the forms of things, without realizing, that there could be, the possibilities, of what we perceive being, something else.


illustration by the writer, off of

The Eggs of Birds, Fitting to Use in the Poetry, or the, Cooking of, Dishes, as Well as, for the, Working Class.

The Circular, Slouching into Work, Getting Sat on, Hatching Out.  The Time Waited for it to Incubate, the Space Incubating it too, coming into form and being, for the Sake of a Brand New, Beautiful, World

Finally, Broken Out of that Shell, Ahhh, that Round, that Round Face of, a, Clown.

The Ears are the Wings on the Face, Flying Upward, Higher, Higher, Higher Up in the Air, Leaving Everything Behind, Yet, Falling Back, into, the Karmic, Cycles.

And so, this is on being, STUCK, as what we are, our roles that we play in the world, we can’t, escape that, no matter how we try, and, we can’t fight it, because, we got, PUT in our, places here.

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Filed under Awareness, Perspectives, Poetry, STUCK in a Cookie Jar, Vicious Cycle


To NEVER question the authorities of an adult

To NEVER doubt that they have the best interests of our wellbeing in their minds

To NEVER disobey them

To NOT listen to the HURT in our bodies, WHAT our bodies tells us

To NEVER be allowed to feel anything

To OBEY and HONOR the man we are, serving

That, was how they’d all, groomed us, CUTTING off our rights

And we were all made, slaves

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Filed under Abuser/Enabler Interaction Style, Basic Human Rights, Life, Poetry, Properties of Life, Socialization, STUCK in a Cookie Jar, Vicious Cycle, Wake Up Calls, White Picket Fence

Chased Down by Time

Tick-tock, tick—tock…I hear it, nonstop!

Chased Down by Time

No Time to Lose

Gotta Go, Gotta Hurry Up

racing to cross that finish line, with TIME on our, backs!

and we can’t, lose it! Illustration from online

To What?

Dunno, just Need to Hasten Up

Quick, You Hear that Alarm

Knowing You’re, Already Behind Before You Start

Chased Down by Time You Are

In This Race Against Time

You’re Gonna Lose in Time

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Filed under Awareness, Life, Perspectives, Poetry, Properties of Life, Wake Up Calls

The Tears for, Ukraine

The Tears for, Ukraine

Fell from the Heavens Above

Drip, Drip, Drip

As They’d Fallen Out of Heaven

They’d Turned Red

Seeped into the Soils

Dyeing the Earth to Crimson

The Tears for, Ukraine

looking up to heaven…photo from online

It’d Fallen For, More than Six Months Now

Yet it’d Felt Like, It’d Been Going on for an Eternity Already

When oh When, Will God See, and Put an End to the Deaths?

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Filed under Abuse, Abuse of Power, Interactions Shared with the World, Life, Poetry, Right to Life, the Finality of Life, Tragedies in the World, White Picket Fence

Old Things, a Poem

How nobody can rid themselves of what’s already happened in their, lives!  Translated…

The Mixed-and-Matched Print Patterns of the Night

In the Mirrors, You’d Noted Your Backside

And What it Had, Weathered

Pretentious Mirror, with Millions of Spaces, and Times

Those Who were Amiss, Returned to Here

Tried to Patch Things Up, You and Your

Lines Were Off.  In the Staged Scenes

like these!

painting from online

Dancing Like Out-of-Line, Continued Moving Toward the Distances

Describing the Old Items

Farther Back, an Abandoned Building

You’d Longed for Solitude

There Was, a Tiny Chunk of Metal

Clung onto Your Skin

So, these are, the old things, that you want to be rid of, but somehow, they’d always, stuck on you, and you can’t figure out why!

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Filed under Life, Observations, Perspectives, Philosophies of Life, Poetry, Properties of Life, Things Left Behind

I’d Become Bones for You on the Way……

On death and dying, translated…

The rains, they’d not come as much as past years.  Every time it’d rained, the smell of the rain, got into the air, cut me off from my concentration.

The rainy seasons.

The sights that were burned by the sun, became the multilayered dimensions under the rain.

The sounds of the rain.

The sounds of the rain pouring down put out the calls of the cicadas, the barks of the stray dogs, and they focused on pouring down hard, wet my poetry too.

The scenes in the rain.

It’d made me realized my three-dimensional, the me that’s currently breathing, not the me that’s, wandered off.  The space I’m in, the lungs that were filled and emptied, the wild lilies that bid farewell to their stamens, with their colors brighter now.

Only a sudden onset of rain can achieve this.  The sun’s rays made all of these too matter-of-fact, in the eastern side of this island, with a lot of sunshine, he was the collective of the dark clouds gathering up in the skies; the foot of the clouds hiked over the Central Mountain Range, gathered enough precipitation, with its full stomach, arrived to the plains, then, suddenly, the rumbling, and let it all out, made this, seemingly, extra-ordinary thunderstorm.

photo from online

The timings of rain.

The rain became stationary in that sense of time.  The heavens, earlier, already, lifted up the curtains of rain, drenched those on the western side of the mountains.  We start falling, in the time zone differences of the rain.

On my way to the café, the rain hit the twenty-three ribs of a city in Hubei.  One of ribs had fallen and gotten lost on the roads, and it’d sung loud in the pouring rain.

And, this is very imaginative, there’s that sense of freshness that this writer gave to death and dying, and the rain symbolized the renewal from death, of how things still keep on going, as deaths are happening, all around where we live right now.

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Filed under Creative Writing, Life, On Death & Dying, Perspectives, Philosophies of Life, Poetry, Properties of Life

Parents, Still Living, a Poem

Spending time with one’s own parents, translated…

The Central Mountain Ranges, Distant

Three-Thousand Years-Old, Thirty Thousand Years Old…………

My Parents & I

The Three of Us Combined

Only a Total of Two Hundred Fifty Years

We’d Shared Two Cups of Coffee

A Piece of Light Cheese Cake

My Father is Alive, My Mother is as Well

like this???

gathering together with one’s own parents to spend more time with them…photo from online

I on This Autumn Afternoon

Helped Her Clean Out the Stainless Steel Water Bottle She Used

Like a Small Hill,

I’d, Placed it Back, onto, Her

Dresser Drawer

And so this is on parent-child relations, the child is an adult, and s/he is realizing the importance of spending more time with her/his parents, because, they’re aging fast, and, if s/he doesn’t take the time, then, time will, run out!

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Filed under Expectations, Life, Observations, Parent-Child Interactions, Perspectives, Philosophies of Life, Poetry, Properties of Life, Values

Cleared Up, a Poem

The moments before sunrise, when you’re, slowly, waking up, translated…

The Face is an Awakened, Orange


The Rainbow in the Pothole

The Tar Road that’s Mushy

The Shadows of the Cats & the Dogs

Trimmed to Uneven

The Awkwardness of the Faces

The Moldy Oranges, the Silver-Colored Fungi, the Brass-Colored Fungi

The Beards, the Sideburns, All Spotted & Gray

The Tattoos on the Arms

The Fish with the Flowers, with the Birds

Halfway in April, Half-Drunk Bottle of Wine

and this, is what the, family, became…pieces, with the, jagged edges on them, photo from online

Half the Tears

Half of the Brothers Karamazov

The People in the Rusted Photo Frames

With the Smoke Rings,

The Black Eyes………with the Times Running Loose & Around

My Father Sat Opposite from Me

My Mother Wiping the Windows, the Branches were Twisting Around

The Nest of the Warbling White-Eye, the Queen of the Night Slowly Withered Away

Without a Single Word

As the Skies Turned Light

And so, another night’s ended, and, you and your families had, sat in silence, and all that transpired between you and your family members is, the tick-tocking away of that clock on the wall, no words of exchange, and everybody going about her/his own life, like, strangers…

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Filed under Family Dynamics, Life, Parent-Child Interactions, Perspectives, Poetry, Properties of Life, White Picket Fence

But It’s Our, Bodies…

You Say that Roe vs. Wade is MURDER

But it’s Our, Bodies…

That at Conception, there’s, Something that’s Alive Inside

But it’s Our, Bodies

You Tell Us, that it’s Un-Christian, to Take a Life

But it’s Our, Bodies, Carrying Those, “Lives” (are they really noted as living at the moment of, conception???)

It’s just Not Right, that the Government Now Controls Over ALL of Our (Women’s) Reproductive Rights

But WHAT Can We Do?  We are Now, Second-Class Citizens of the Free World Here

And We Can Only, Allow the Government to DICTATE WHAT is to happen, and what isn’t to happen, with our bodies

Now Consider this:

Would this have happened, if it’s the MEN we’re talking about?

Of Course N-O-T!  ‘Cuz YOU LOSERS ain’t got what it takes to carry your babies, unless, you’re all, seahorses, sea dragons, but your not, or, are you all, kangaroos, with them, pouches here?

Of course NOT!

And you TAKE away the RIGHTS of our bodies???

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Filed under Abuse of Power, Basic Human Rights, Perspectives, Poetry, Pro Life vs. Pro Choice, Right to Life, White Picket Fence, Women's Issues

The Stranded Ark

How nothing stays the same, in the baptism of, time, translated…

The Stars that Lost the Precisions in Words

The Boxes, Flooded by an Overflow of Emotions

The Stars that We Can, No Longer, Hear

The Roses, that Became, Blurred

The Mix-and-Match of the Words

Waiting for the Sharpened Knives to Get Them Edited

the progressions of, life

found online

Cutting Off All the Excess

To Make Things Less, Complex

The Wind Can’t Recognize the Banners

The Cloud Can’t Decipher My Mind

That Ark Made of Words, Stranded

Expecting the Rise of Tides of Inspiration

The Musical Instruments Stopped Playing Now

And Took with Them, the Ripples Like the Poems by that Boat

There’s, that light scent of, loss here, of how things are gone so quickly, of how we can’t hold onto time, no matter how much we wanted time to slow down, it just, doesn’t.

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Filed under Life, Maturation, Old Age, Perspectives, Philosophies of Life, Poetry, Properties of Life, Things Left Behind