A Bowlful of Sky
Baek Gyerim
If the blue autumn sky
were a cool aluminum pot,
then today’s lunch would surely be
a spicy bowl of sky jjambbong!
The wind goes, “Hoo, hoo,”
blowing with pursed lips,
cooling the reddened noodles
at this heavenly noodle shop.
The sky grabs the pot handle
with its white cloud hand,
and the impatient autumn tree
thrusts its chopsticks high into the air.
“Oh my, oh my! What’s that smell?”
Cloud fellows passing by
swallow their drool
and come rushing over,
slurping the noodles—
slurp, smack, chomp, chomp!
Clouds that love it hot,
clouds that love it chewy,
even the white clouds
posing proudly above the blue mountains—
One sip of that spicy autumn-sunshine broth,
and oh my!
Their noses start to run,
their eyes fill with tears!
“Whew—ha! It’s hot,
but I just can’t stop craving it!”
The yellow noodles
soak up the spicy broth,
and like red maple leaves
dancing in the wind,
they’re cooked to perfection—
so rich, so spicy, so delicious!
Coming Home
Sitting alone on the moving train, with heavy thoughts upon my brain.
The cabin lights begin to dim, I shed the ghost, I am not him.
My mind goes dark while the car stays lit, because I know the truth of it.
And as the driving rhythm rolls, I climb out of the ten-mile holes.
I claim my space and leave behind, the quiet wreckage of the mind.
I sift the ashes and the bone, for truths that I call my home.
Tonight I'll sleep in my own bed, without demons dancing in my head.
For tonight I swear the demon's lair, is no longer filled with Satan's air.
The remnants of the days gone by take yield to bluer skies,
and from the wreckage of the mind, the woman starts to rise.
I make no promise, I make no claim, the devil dwells in his domain.
To turn around and look for blue, where reddened skies are breaking through.
I know my heart, the battle's won, the heavy, bleeding work is done.
I leave behind the life I knew, and stand my ground, for I am true.
O Lord my God, the war is through, there's nothing left for me to do.
I wish the world could finally see, the truth that You have known in me.
Tibi fideliter,
Debra
Oil spread across blank canvases
W
i
l
d
reigning over the smudges I tossed
crimsons and violets and fuchsias galore...
merging together to form a tree bark hue
the deepening browns often relate the most~
unique and fertile as the shades can ever become
wild and bitter like lattes blended with vanilla
down to earth and relaxed as a warm light source
making my skin go reddened and vibrant
like parakeets nesting in trunks and serenading
or moss clinging to nearby marble, discovering a home
sort of like a fashion statement, a mild accessory
but these browns won't linger in silhouettes
just keep me pacified and add to soft ambiance
while aiding to the beauty of belonging
and the silkiness of softness which surrounds us~
My belle, I met her when the grass was green,
my Spring Girl. Fresh her ways, her charms were many.
I claimed her as my own, but she was no flower;
and like the breeze that teases trees she shook the hearts of many.
Again, she’d turn to me and I’d forget the torment which was yesterday.
She was mine today and that was all that mattered.
I felt as I would have had I been loved.
My Wondering Breeze began to blow again;
the green of jealousy within me started to flow again.
I could not help myself, the slap reddened her cheek
like copper leaf in autumn.
She turned the other slowly: pale, white, frigid as winter light.
I struck her again.
She fell through my hands and shattered,
the one who above all things mattered the most.
met her end by these hands that used to caress her
and cup her like priceless spice.
In fit of anger. I struck her down, to my obsession, a sacrifice.
There she lay after the final blow. How can I let her know
that my anger was born not out of love but jealousy?
Oh, had she been faithful to me!
"Another day, another dollar;
a day late and a dollar short."
Here summer comes early.
Mostly, it never really leaves.
Here there are fresh-faced
children -- but they will change.
Boys will ripen to close
copies of their fathers --
those many sullen somber
silent men. Girls will mimic
still their mothers, aging
early in summers' petulant,
pervasive, potent green.
Here hopeless men will not
expose, in words, their griefs --
since there will always be only
the harsh monotony of each
tomorrow's changeless green.
Around sun-reddened weary necks
hang heavy burdens, weighty worries
never lessened, the endless summer's
cruel paradox: how such paucity
of hopeful human spirit festers
in the midst of profligate abundance,
this all-enveloping, overgrowing green.
Small palms pressed against her ears
Reddened five-year face of tears
Third stair from the top she sat
Next to a little striped cat
Neither could rest with all the noise
She'd thought she knew of girls and boys
But maybe there was more to learn
She should just wait 'til it's her turn
But this time seemed more serious
Dad had taught her not to cuss
Yet he was doing it a lot
Mom broke a dish that Gram had bought
"I think this time, it's up to me"
She whispered to Mr. Stripey
She stepped into the kitchen light
"Hey Mom, hey Dad - you're in a fight"
"My teacher said to "make amends"
She said it helps people be friends
I don't know how to make them yet
But Mom and Dad, I really bet
If you can find the recipe
All will be fine and then you'll see
Amends will make everything right
Then this can be your last big fight
Love you. Goodnight!"
She stood between them; one-arm hug
For each of them, held nice and snug
She turned, and joyful, skipped away
Satisfied she'd saved the day
She climbed into her princess bed
Her little face was no more red
Mr. Stripey next to her
His lullaby - contented purr
A meadow awaits its springtime march
where my feet wander along
like one holy pilgrimage: a nettle drifts
without blame or sense of pity,
leaves lingering on trunks reddened
by the kiss of clay glossy
in a mad desire to wake, wake
dawn flowing with herbage.
I trace how flaming in amber this weed
crawls in wild, unbridled streaks
of lightened mud, part ground, part wind :
Twilight sings the break of newborn day
where this nettle crawls alone, not lonely;
its slithering frame posed to rule over blooms
a nymph perhaps trailblazing in abandon--
that being in this ethereal space rouses
both pleasure and piety within my bones…
while the soil's womb bears more weeds.
Fly shadow fly
seeking another apple on outskirts of stages
I will not move unanswered
Powerful
is my name
Shadow flies whimpering
hosting another cloud filled with longing rhythms
an audience seeking crystal droplets
Showering
like young poets
Seeking another apple
pear found instead, the bite poor verse
whisper into tangled plaited hair
Paperwork
to translate longing
Outskirts of stages
I did not move upon a shore
there lies my reddened core
Shivering
a no return
Search no longing
sigma waves seek to moisten dry throat
they float only my apple
Exposure
for your tongue
__________________________
[ Poet’s Notes : Eliska Form :
5 lines in each Stanza
3 / 7 / 5 / 1 / 3 words per line.
Line 4 constraint:
3 or more syllables ]
Honourable Mention :
All Poetry Contest
March 26
One candle wish; infant turns to walking.
The crawl of time; no thoughts of future wish.
The glow of light - reddened in face, talking.
Peach fuzz of blonde, a little flirt; a dish.
One candle wish, so bright, she smiles-a-star.
The fire of heart - she’s sixteen-years-pretty.
The camera captures her near and far.
So fresh of face; the charm of wish; witty.
One candle wish, fading, but she holds fast.
Wrinkles ‘round eyes, love’s time has passed; alone.
Mindful, with no complaint - she’s had a blast.
Many wishes are blown - a true milestone.
The brightest light, one candle wish, shines on.
A heady ride, born in eternal dawn.
Domestic violence
The couple had nice tans, but she had a black eye
He was courteous towards her, tried to hold
her hand, but she refused to hold his hand
His face reddened angrily, and he got his way
Both were nicely dressed, meeting friends
No doubt they would tell a droll story on how
She got that Eye
Polite laughter, the men accepted the story
But the women exchange glances,
In the powder room, they will now know the truth
The unlucky one would beg them not to
tell anyone, saying he loves me, but has a quick
temper; when I nag him, he sometimes slaps me
But it always says sorry and begs forgiveness
Dear bastard,
You are the mistake of a failed love affair
Your mother wasn’t aware of your existence
Till your father decided he wanted out
You were just a tiny clot of blood
But it was all your fault.
Your father tried his best to stay
But your mother kept crying at his door at night
So he left
She never saw him again but in your face
Poor bastard
You were never meant to live a life free from rebuke
You were never meant to taste the metal of a silver spoon,
Much less see it
Poor bastard
You will dig through the muck of the gutters and arise with a bottle clutched in your fist
And your eyes reddened by the drink
Your vision will never focus enough to handle the bastards you will beget
Years to come.
But, bastard, right now
You are just a tiny boy
Chasing tires along the streets of Accra.
I can feel the whine inside fermenting,
maybe it is time to cash in my chips.
A sure sign of cornucopia? Swollen lips.
All at once my self restraint is relenting.
The contour of those toned shoulders,
it’s enough to make my mouth water.
When you’re near my skin gets hotter,
dewdrops gush as my face smolders.
My chest has now begun to undulate,
dizzy and damp I’m left light headed.
Intimate spaces suddenly reddened,
hunger makes it hard to concentrate.
This bruised fist has turned blue-black,
now it’s my turn for a little bit of fun.
I know you know what you have done,
owning my ornery I can’t hold it back.
Overflowing with need I must submit,
I’m going to take what I need from you.
I have no choice but to do what I do.
Jibber-jabber? Let’s just cut through it.
Movement Shod
Heeling halt
Abbreviated democracy
Flank in route
Gaurd maneuver out
Folded company
Beret for address
Redress complete
Back in Britain
Marina Ann Hantzis
Princess Matilda
Vulnerable Matilda Prodigy
Florence of the ash reddened twine Nightengale
Graphic design
I come from a brass adorned general
We don't resemble excess points
I am exit of branch in brass adjacent brad
Minute brigadier
Halt
Ag is creation
In duration of appointment
Grass is yawn
Foreign testimony
Irresolute burden
Friendly visions 1
The refusal of hindrance
Nulled void in presence of buddha
Blvd.
Bill of ardent
Assembly of literature budget
Education boundary activities
25th hour calls on sight
The heat creeps into the empty fabric
only getting colder
inside the tightly closed gray jacket
no warmth of jokes and laughter
nor embraces that are increasingly glowing
please, close your eyes for a moment
let me kiss between your reddened eyelids
bitterness of isolation
And if it's tomorrow
take the time for a final greeting
when I'm still stuck at the end of the road
so that the pressure on our shoulders will lighten
If it's still 20 counts
let's turn away before the bitterness ends and silences
before regret and suffocation grip us even more
before forgiveness and love are expressed again
If you were to ask me
Be the one to catch me, before i take the fall
You'd be the only one waiting, afterall
For whence i open my mouth and
Spill a sea of pills tinged with reddened liquor
I think you'd listen, then
If i took advice from any voice, it'd say 'give up'
But then again the only advice i ever took was the gurgles from down below
Onwards, outwards, suck inwards and hollow
If i gouged the gurgles, they'd say 'continue'
They'd count on me as i count every zero
They'd hold onto my head while i clutch the bottle
But, you'd catch me.
Incase i couldn't catch me
You'd advise me to give up
But i'd have fallen from your grasp
Onwards, downwards, i'd ignore the numbers from the liquor
For they'd spill from my mouth ever quicker
I'd have lost count, either way.
Hey, what did you want to say?
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