Category: My Poetry & Fiction

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Really, every day?
Yes, a poem every day.
Sometimes a dull one.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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The sun is up high.
Blackberries suggest futures
and remember pasts.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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A first night, morning
unfolding in Oregon,
the sunflowers watch.

– a pseudo-haiku.

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"Hi kids. Today I have to tell you
some important, surprising news.
I am leaving Korea."
I look on with sadness.
Some of them are shocked.
But one young man
simply says,
"Okay.
Bye."

– a nonnet.

There are 2 types of projects:
Those that must be done…
And those I'd like to get done.
The former get done.
The latter may get done, someday.
Maybe.
Sometimes I prefer to watch the trees on the hillside.

Now I've boxed my books,
they're out of both sight and mind.
I study the shelves.

at the edge of mind
slipping into perception
electric fan's whirr

Humidity puts fog on glass. I think
the summer rains have coated atmosphere
with dim regrets, unspoken colloquies.

swathes of blue or green will set free
the rising tree, maybe clean
air unseen.

My soul is a slate
upon which fate inscribes lines:
curves and cool whitespace.

The sky, simplest blue;
the rain having fled, clouds too;
but things are clean, cool.

[daily log: walking, 1km]

The world suddenly turns blue and then fades
and lurking shades surge on through
night, made new

such melancholy
telling my students I'll go
their looks of surprise

the monsoon might rest
for a moment: hello sun;
hello brooding heat

I lay prepared like poultry: grist for knives
or scalpels held by surgeons, mentally
relinquishing a grip on life, unknown
events awaiting, ghostlike now and gone.

Eight thirteen AM
Vast piles of my own past sit
drinking atmosphere

well now it's raining
and raining and raining and
emptying the sky

slate and silver dawn
a fine drizzle combs hillsides
summer air's repose

Possessions make claims, demanding control
of your soul, of what you've planned,
where you stand.

What?
Papers,
all scattered
across the floor:
a dull detritus,
a maudlin expression,
an emptiness manifest,
of my many years living here.
And soon I'll say "annyeonghi…" and go.

Hello there, monsoon.
Did you come to paint skies gray?
Or just water the trees?

I don't believe it
The sun and sky are nothing
But still they insist