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Yawara Ng Poem
Two days before the deadline.
Fingers flying frantically,
Condensing a lifetime’s achievement
In 500 words or less.
Eyes are bloodshot from the long night, spent
Staring and scanning every line, every blip
With the careful precision of a surgeon.
Secretly beautifying my faults
Like an embalmer, decorating wounds,
To make even a dead body presentable.
All to impress anonymous judges
Who are endowed with the authority
To confirm my life’s worth.
Judges who grade lives—
Out of a pool of million—
Superficial enough to be condensed
In 500 words or less.
Copyright © Yawara Ng | Year Posted 2008
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Yawara Ng Poem
Lost in the green, leafy space,
Resting on his back out in the country,
The old hermit picks himself up and stands.
He begins the morning trek in the forest
Admiring the nature filled scenery—
The last retreat from the world.
Here peace abounds outside the world,
The man tries to create his own space,
Freed from the concerns of his country.
The trees form a barrier, a final stand
Prohibiting the city from his forest,
Preventing pollution of the scenery.
But bits of the outside defile the scenery.
The sanctuary is attacked by the world
Who slowly chokes the living space—
Unaware or uncaring of the leafy country—
With weapons of garbage, smog. He stands,
Staring at a coke can in his forest.
It stands out on the grassy forest
Floor. It ruins the life-filled scenery.
Almost acting as a message from the world,
Telling the hermit this isn’t his space.
A reminder that they own the country,
And out of a whim he is allowed to stand,
He is given the privilege to stand,
To admire, to enjoy the nature made forest
Whose beauty can be erased from the scenery,
Leaving only overturned land for the world,
Ready to defile the hermit's sacred space
And strip the trees off the country.
The old hermit cries in this country,
Among the trees, the animals, he stands.
Beneath the sky, above the earthy forest
He prays. Since childhood this scenery
Stood out. As a kid he’d leave the world,
Finding a solace in this private space.
But now the hermit’s leafy forest in the country,
The only natural space left on the concrete world,
Is threatened. Unless he stands up for the scenery.
Copyright © Yawara Ng | Year Posted 2008
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Yawara Ng Poem
Nestled in his recliner,
His body oozes into the grooves,
Filling up every nook, every cranny
Until a synergistic union of man and
La-Z-Boy is achieved.
His eyes are unreceptive, half closed watching his
High definition plasma widescreen;
Yet they remain constant on the TV,
Like a doctor staring at an EKG
Aware for changes or blips.
The right hand’s on top the clicker,
Burning off his body’s reserve
From the Hungry Man breakfast, lunch, and dinners.
Content to recline his life away,
The Sloth stays planted to his domain,
And camouflages with his environment
As the cheetos stains slowly cover his frame.
Copyright © Yawara Ng | Year Posted 2008
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Yawara Ng Poem
Standing outside,
Working in the heat,
Skin charred and brown,
Weathered and leathery.
There toils the laborer.
He’s fixed at a distance,
Huddled with others.
Like warehouse items,
Tools packed together,
Yet to be used.
His clothes are caked,
Decorated with dirt and dust.
They are torn at the sides
And unwashed for days—
Except from his sweat.
But when he comes near,
You shy from his odor,
Disgusted by the soiled shirt.
Avoiding him like spoilt fruit
Rotting when left in the sun too long.
His arms are creased from overwork,
His hands are like bricks,
His body is weary and chipped,
He is ready to crumble and break
Like the rusted tools he carries.
Yet he keeps toiling.
Ignoring the complaints of the noise
Or the accusations of lethargy.
Swallowing his pride
To earn his allowance.
Copyright © Yawara Ng | Year Posted 2008
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Yawara Ng Poem
Blue—the color of the sea.
Loud and foaming. It constantly
Surges, never ceasing in growth.
The color of childhood.
Green—the color of the mountain.
Invincible and strong. Fully grown,
It towers over all unafraid of hurt.
The color of adolescence.
White—the color of snow.
Gentle and flaking. Ever present,
But brushes off, dissipating in time.
The color of adulthood.
Beige—the color of sand.
Crushed and broken. The mountain
Is chiseled down to a grain.
The color of seniority.
Copyright © Yawara Ng | Year Posted 2008
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Yawara Ng Poem
The water is rising towards the shore.
Like a cradle, it rocks me gently,
Easing me with its gentle embrace.
The hug of the sea.
My ears are filled with new sounds,
Listening to the harmonic trebles and
The symphonic bass of the waves.
The voice of the sea.
The breeze blows across the frigid waves.
The chill hits me and goose bumps,
Spiked like the spines of an urchin, appear.
The touch of the sea.
I dive down. The water is above me.
I see nothing but blurry blobs of blue,
An azure fog stretching in all directions.
The gaze of the sea.
My head emerges from the top,
I poke out of the blanket of waves,
Swimming back to the sandy shores.
My farewell to the sea.
Copyright © Yawara Ng | Year Posted 2008
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