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Amy Zhao Poem
In every home
there is a place
That is always forgotten,
Is it
Festering with ants
Or
Inhabited by gnomes?
I don't know what goes on
There
In every
Cranny and nook.
And perhaps I never will ever
Know.
But the the buried corner feels like a song
Without a
tune
That I can dance to,
Barefoot on cold wood.
It tastes like chocolate in my mouth
Sweet, dark, lingering.
It makes me sad,
It has memories,
It is alive.
I can feel its heartbeat
Pulsing,
Parallel to mine.
I feel the pull
Of promises of solitude
And answers to its call.
We dance together,
The forgotten corner and I ,
To our heartbeats
Only we can hear
You never get bored
sitting there
On a bright sunny day.
Watching light chase shadows on the floor
playing the game of
cat and mouse.
(I want to stay )
You never get bored
lying there
Listening to the sound of silence
The sound of dust swirling around.
Transparent like a butterfly's wings,
illuminated by the prefect degree of light
(I want to stay)
Yet there is always a few square meters
Where darkness reigns
Open your arms and welcome it like a friend
(I want to stay )
Sit down for a
minute or two
With hands still full of slippery
soapy foam
Feel the weight
Of memories of objects
Here.
Understand it,
Follow me,
I am staying here
Forever.
Oh look!
(sorry I get distracted easily)
What a pretty flowery blue umbrella!
Why is it lying here?
So lonely,
In this hallway where no one ever comes?
hallway of the forgotten,
Hallway of the lost?
Perhaps it
Belonged to Mary Poppins.
One day
In a time when umbrellas are
dragons and unicorns,
objects from a distant forgotten time.
When you and I are dead and gone,
fallen to dust,
Maybe a child would stumble by it,
maybe auction it off for a
couple billion dollars
That's how high a price
An artefact from the twenty-first century
could fetch.
If you want to bury something
Or let something bury you
Shed your fears
let's go,
You and I,
find that dark corner
A safe harbour,
Full of things long forgotten
And you will be forgotten
Too.
Copyright © Amy Zhao | Year Posted 2016
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Amy Zhao Poem
There is beauty in the night,
In it darkness overcomes light.
There is something in the waves rising,
Then resigning to gently falling.
There is joy in a candle burning bright,
The finality in the way it sputters and dims-
Disappearing from sight.
Let us celebrate life in the making,
But remember a toast to death-
Because one day,
The grim reaper towers before a dying spirit,
Our souls for his taking.
Although there might be tears,
Let us not forget how mourning bells echo through centuries,
Though we remember with clarity, much is lost to time.
And the Earth never stops spinning round and round.
Our Father, death,
He never forgets.
He takes what is his,
He is the king to our subjects,
A monarch with no need for a crown.
Whether you are a naked child on the plains of Africa,
A lonely astronaut carving his name on Mars,
Or a middle aged man yearning for something more in life.
The king unites humanity in strength,
Before life and faith takes us apart.
Copyright © Amy Zhao | Year Posted 2016
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Amy Zhao Poem
The sun slit his wrists
Murderess Moon just watches
I bet she did it
Copyright © Amy Zhao | Year Posted 2018
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Amy Zhao Poem
Burn the bodies, Lady Vengeance's sweet Solicitor,
Shadows chase away laughter and days bleed into night.
Rise, Rise again, blood of the undead traitor.
The towers are unforgiving, they are bitter,
Grey skies that hovers above all they bear witness with startling sight.
Burn the bodies, Lady Vengeance's sweet Solicitor,
Fate and fantasies grapple as one who might emerge victor?
The prisoner begs in vain and broken for release into the world of light,
Rise, Rise again, blood of the undead traitor.
Kings and queens lived and died as mortals, the kingdom's greatest dictators,
Those who reasoned with the Devil,should have known what is better and right.
Burn the bodies, Lady Vengeance's sweet Solicitor.
Hollow guests of the darkened chambers moan as one and me, the narrator-
I am deeply transformed, because the stories they tell, hooks to my mind. Fight
To rise, rise again, blood of the undead traitor.
But a man can only kneel before greatness and submit himself to the creator.
And when I turn my head, only to see the Thames trailing softly by, washed by midnight-
Burn the bodies, Lady Vengeance's sweet Solicitor.
Rise, Rise again, blood of the undead traitor.
Copyright © Amy Zhao | Year Posted 2016
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Amy Zhao Poem
A Father and a Daughter walked onto
The bus.
One stop away from the highway.
The whiteness outside creeping up around,
Silently,
Like a cat.
He sat in front,
She sat behind.
She had long hair down her back,
He had white feathers stuck in his.
She sat there looking around, shaking her legs,
He coughs,
Again and again.
He asked,
"Do you want to go to the library?"
As the bus
Rolled onto the highway.
Wheels creaking,
Sluggishly.
Up
The formidable slope.
She shrugged.
Silence.
The bus started descending from the highway.
She
Examined his white hair.
Little fingers curling around the nape of his neck.
He sat there,
Head full of images of leaking pipes, electricity bills and the lady with the pink dress.
She
Giggled at this new game
Tugging at his hair.
He suddenly made as if to
Reach out and grab her hand.
But she withdrew swiftly,
Laughing with delight.
She returned to her game on his hair.
His hand reaches back again,
And she collapsed back.
She grew bolder
Pulling at his hair,
Willing him to look,
To listen,
To play with her.
Until his bigger hand
Shot out
Like a dart
And found hers,
Clasped tight
Game over.
Still the game does not go on forever
She would elude him
She would fight him
His big hand reaching out to grab air
They pass each other by
Until they both have white feathers in their hair
The bus stops
A Father and a Daughter alighted
They did not go hand in hand
Copyright © Amy Zhao | Year Posted 2016
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Amy Zhao Poem
I wrote a poem for myself.
I have always wanted to
write a poem for myself.
It's not a history,
It's not a herstory,
I am a misogynist, sorry
Copyright © Amy Zhao | Year Posted 2017
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Amy Zhao Poem
Magic,
You feel it
When you but breathe this sacred word.
Sacred, pilgrims travel far
To taste it.
Sparks,
To flee from it
Before you acquire a taste for it.
In this world,
You run away from it
You hear?
Some things aren't meant for you to touch.
You fly far far away from it.
"But I can't help it."
Look up at night,
And behold the sky full of stars.
How dangerous they are,
Hold on to that feeling.
The danger is what I have
Spent my years chasing,
Regardless of what others tell me.
I died dreaming a dream that many has dreamt before me,
And survived a dream that many would dream after me.
"But how did you do it?"
Practice, dear, and and a teaspoon of magic with a bucket of miracle.
Copyright © Amy Zhao | Year Posted 2016
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Amy Zhao Poem
Last year around this time,
We were all watching, waiting although it was Super white.
And then Leo won(finally, the academy being relieved of that atrocious crime).
This year I can't help agreeing, the academy is right
Although Miranda kind of lost with his song in Moana,
But wait for it, the Oscars in its height, around midnight-
That's when everybody sits on the sofa,
"Oh, I think La La Land will win this year, let me make that clear
Moonlight was a tearjerker but it is not in the same league by even one iota!"
So the time nears,
The Presenter enters, hugs and kisses exchanged
Applause, whispers, cheers and jeers
La la land's destiny fulfilled,
But "hold on, wait, the show runner's got something to say to y'all
Moonlight is the winner after all!"
The drama, the suspense, the rigged, and unrigged,
we just close one eye and wave in nonchalance," Well, it's Hollywood"
Maybe there is something we are ignoring,
Maybe there is some conspiracy,
Some deep dark secret.
maybe it's just the universe playing a cruel jape
Maybe it's nothing, we are overreacting
Just like we overreact to so many things.
So what if a large orange Monster rules over the world?
So what if Britain is not a part of EU?
One day we will realise,
To our dismay.
That the human kind did not survive until today if we are made of clay.
Everything will be okay.
And we will keep surviving regardless of whatever surprises the galaxy throws our way
So dust off your troubles,
If you keep worrying.
Things will be alright.
Someday.
Copyright © Amy Zhao | Year Posted 2017
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Amy Zhao Poem
I fell down the stairs,
with a Guzheng in my arms.
Its 21 strings quivered.
I flung my arms around all of them.
A moment of vertigo,
not knowing where I was.
And you just stood between the sun and me,
bright as a halo with wings.
I looked at the perfect 21 strings,
So perfect they could form a song.
The first note was a Rom-Com,
The second, of roses and chocolate and true, true romance
The third of the monstrous doubt,
The fourth enters wildly,
The ending of Taylor Swift song.
The strings of my heart are dead,
Bleeding out on the stairwell ground.
You just stood there,
Watching me fall.
You just stood there.
And I was alone.
Copyright © Amy Zhao | Year Posted 2016
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Amy Zhao Poem
The boat that floats down the Summer's Isles
Life's sweet and innocent charade
Reflected on the waves
Rising, falling with a cadence only the River would understand
The soprano notes of incredulity
The continuity of prolonged existence
The one thing about the River that speaks to all
That eternity is but a wisp of cloud
That eternity is but an ending
And the old makes way for the young like the falling waves
A new generation-
We all know
Whatever it takes
Wherever they go
Here is the inertia of life
Copyright © Amy Zhao | Year Posted 2016
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