Little birdie out my window,
Chirping, calling, “Come and play!”
Can’t you see I want to join you—
Work, I must, this day away!
But when I’m through, I promise you:
Nothing here could make me stay.
I will find you through and through,
We will play the day away!
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Image: Pinterest
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Alone I sit and contemplate
this thing that we call life:
Desires we cannot satiate,
the struggles and the strife.
I wonder why we do it now,
I wonder why we try.
I wonder why we carry on,
why not lay down and die?
I guess there’s hope—
the future, see?
Our dreams, they are
a mystery . . .
But, no.
It’s been all these years:
He’ll not return to me.
(He’s God’s, can’t you see?)
I wonder why I do it now,
I wonder why I cry.
I wonder why I can’t let go,
for him, alone, I’ll die.
Unworthy . . .
(God judge me.)
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He doesn’t mourn for me.
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Note: I feel badly. This poem is not about death (at least not in the traditional sense), though it could easily be read that way. Please, dear readers, do not mourn for me. I did not mean to mislead you or look for sympathy.
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I used to feel guilty for being who I am.
I am a U.S. citizen. I was born to two loving parents who worked hard to provide for their children. I have never had to worry about food or shelter. I have never been abused, raped, or neglected. I have a college education and have been privileged to travel to many different parts of the world.
Why?
Why me? Why did I laugh as a child while other children cried? Continue reading
Victoria Harbor, Hong Kong
I remembered, after my last post, a conversation I once had with a friend.
“My teachers told me I was stupid.”
I looked at him. “They did what?”
“They told me I was stupid.”
“That’s terrible! Why would your teachers say that?”
“I don’t know. My grades were bad.” He looked out the window. The sun was sparkling on the water. It was a surprisingly clear Hong Kong day.
“Your grades were bad because you didn’t study, not because you’re stupid.”
“The education system is messed up.” He glanced back at me and then down at the table. There was a checker board there, in case we’d brought pieces to play. Continue reading
He was short. When he walked, he lilted—up and down and up and down—bobbing as a buoy on the sea. Maybe because one leg was slightly longer than the other. Or perhaps he had flat feet.
No matter the weather, he wore a t-shirt (fitted tightly over rounded belly) with shorts and flats. Sometimes he wore a sweatshirt. His sandy beard he kept unkempt. His bus, however, was immaculate.
I saw him often—on my way to and from home. He drove the 103M, the minibus between Tseung Kwun O, the closest MTR station, and Clear Water Bay. Around and around he’d circle, letting passengers on and off, waiting in the dimly-lit parking garage for people shivering or sweating to fill the bus so he could take them home. While he waited, he’d wash the bus windows. Sometimes, he’d whistle. Continue reading
Forgive me, my friends,
for my absence.
The week charges on,
and I’m worried!
I’ve freelance to do,
and there’s work to be done,
so though my heart’s here
I am hurried!
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Dragons are the most exalted “animal” in Chinese culture.
I was struck by its colors. Bright red and yellow and blue and green . . .
But then it was gone. Nick* was driving too fast. But, oh wait! There was another one. This one looked similar, only it was bigger. Rainbow-colored dragons with yellow spines leaped from its peaks. Black-bearded men holding whips perched nearby. I was agog.
But then it was gone.
“Would you slow down?” I wanted to punch Nick.
“You want to see temples?”
I said nothing. Continue reading
I often stop and think
standing in a crowd,
when nothing seems in sync,
everything, just loud.
When everyone is talking—
nothing’s being said.
When everyone is moving—
pieces being led.
When light is eery shading:
scenes are black and white.
Familiar faces fading;
distant, lost from sight.
Yup, I don’t belong here,
anyone can see.
If only . . . Never mind, dear.
Time for me to flee.
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Something I didn’t expect when I started this blog was . . . Well, two things actually.
One, that anyone (besides my dad—thanks, Dad!) would ever actually read what I wrote, and . . .
Two, that I would begin to feel a sense of community with the people I never expected would read my blog who actually did.
Creating this blog has allowed me to express my thoughts—thoughts which previously bounced endlessly around in the recesses of my mind—with an unknown world. In return, the unknown world has, for once, been kind: You have made me feel less alone. Continue reading
The heart doesn’t lie,
knows what’s to be done.
So though my lips sigh,
escape there is none.
The mind likes to drift,
on seas none can find.
Creating a rift,
‘tween body and mind.
Or is that the truth?
Could the opposite be?
The mind is the sleuth . . .
The heart out to sea?
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Image credit: Pinterest
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Sunrise in the Sierra Nevadas
Forgive me. I was an English major. My last post reminded me of this poem by William Wordsworth.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;—
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I’d rather be
A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn. Continue reading
I wasn’t listening. Not because I didn’t want to. I couldn’t hear.
If I could just . . . Why can’t I ever . . . Damn you, Jess. I was frustrated. Another day gone and not enough accomplished. What was the matter with me?
I hated myself.
Three miles out and I couldn’t take it anymore. My headphones were too much. I wanted to throw them on the ground.
Instead, I yanked them off, and I was greeted by a sound. Continue reading
View of the school from our office.
I was forgetting something. What was I forgetting? This was important. But . . . Ohhhh. Sigh. The others were waiting for me. I’d already kept them too long. Forget it.
I grabbed my stuff off of my desk—including the portable heater and laundry bag I carried back and forth and back and forth between work and home—and ran out the door, down the cement stairs, over the wet tile, past the sewer vents, through the mud, to the van. I could tell the others were annoyed. “I’m sorry, guys!” I said as soon as I’d slid the sliding door shut. No one said anything. Suddenly I realized why. It was my turn to drive. “Oh, sorry.”
I fumbled for my keys in my purse and moved to the drivers’ seat. The gray sky began to cry as I drove down the hill. It was just as well. The pitter patter was soothing. No one felt like talking. Continue reading
The world remembers many names,
but does it know their faces?
Does it know their stories?
Can it see their traces?
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Boulevard des Capucines, by Claude Monet (1874)
Claude Monet, impressionist painter ( 1840-1926) was in dire financial straits and dealt with depression for much of his life. In 1868 he tried to commit suicide by throwing himself into the Seine. He also frequently got frustrated with his work. It is said he destroyed as many as 500 of his paintings by burning, cutting, or kicking them. He once wrote that, “Age and chagrin have worn me out. My life has been nothing but a failure, and all that’s left for me to do is to destroy my paintings before I disappear.” Continue reading
My running route in Hong Kong.
There are roads—
paths I know by heart.
Up and down and up and down,
I run.
End to start.
There are paths—
friends I pound apart.
Fast and slow and fast and slow,
we go,
with no restart.
There are friends—
routes of little art.
Loud and soft and loud and soft,
we talk.
They know my heart.
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