Poetry
Image by Jr Korpa @ Unsplash+
Reclaim the Abandoned Room
Dark mummified roses standing in the vase,
gray spider webs hanging over every corner.
A broom wipes out the traces of ignorance,
reclaiming the territory once more.
Pull out used-to-be treasures,
remembering,
sorting out,
Again.
Where is it from?
What does it mean to anyone?
Why is it still here?
Where should it go?
Time passed and memories fading,
while brain tissues fatigued
along with the skeleton and muscle.
Summoning focus, clues resurfaced in each object.
A tea tin now replaced the dusty brittle paper box,
holding on to tens of rusty safe pins,
which might be needed, in case.
Can’t get this sturdy kind anymore.
The drawers stored wishes and dreams in real forms.
Pens, crayons, erasers, note cards, rulers,
paper clips, needles, threads, thumb drives,
ribbons, stamps, book marks children made…
Sweat dripping down the forehead,
Heat evaporating the liquid,
leave crystals no one will see,
Only tongues can taste its savor.
The room, although
holds a history and many concerns,
It’s where quiet spiders had made their tiny lives,
and dust had landed on for nothing but to rest.
One day, this human comes,
Quickly rids them off without mercy.
The human reclaims this extra room,
then out of deep regret, tears fill up the eyes.
But make no mistake,
the tears are not for the dust and spiders,
simply because they are not this human’s
investment.
Going On
Struggling under water,
Suffocating shocks my brain.
Air — sour, stink, rotten atoms —
crashing against one another.
Resisting fusion, they fight to rush out
of my iron-hard skin.
My body is on the brink of explosion—
“Ah—!”
I sit up, realize the blast never happened.
It’s only an urge to urinate.
I am in the bed of the dream land,
that's all.
Still on a bed of hard wood frame,
topped with a sturdy mattress.
Into the warmth of fluffy ducks’ feathers
I sink.
Here,
no crisis, no discrimination,
No injustice, no cruelty,
and no wars.
I start the daily routine:
Brushing teeth,
Washing my face and rinsing away
things in the brain.
Tasks unfold as a ritual:
Breakfast — steamed organic eggs and vegetables.
(I used to skip breakfast, like many others do.)
Gardening — chop off overgrown branches.
(Thanks to the resurgence of drought-tolerant plants.)
Watering — with gray water saved from the laundry
(Mrs. Li always sprays fresh water out of the hose!)
Socializing — Is your dragon’s eye fruit tree happy?
(To be honest, whom did you vote for?)
More errands:
The dentist appointment,
and made a return at the Home Depot.
The tent in the parking lot makes a cool shade,
but it is empty.
No one is waiting, chatting, hoping.
I glance at it then turn my head to the traffic,
Make a left turn on the green light.
Merge into the flow,
and drive away —
Going somewhere peaceful seems futile.
Whirling air pulls everything down.
Fighting with my words, I decide,
for lives not only me.
Shout out what Maya Angelou said,
“No matter what, or how bad it seems today,
Life does go on,
And it will be better tomorrow.”
The Poem
Is this just about me?
Wanting to write a poem?
Break the silent dawn,
Wobbling to the cold spring.
Catching shiny feathers in the air,
One would be sufficiently worthy.
Forget about the abstract dream,
Fixate a droplet above the stream.
Sing a song, write a poem.
It's just about me!