Author: poetryfest

Every day we survive to live to escape
to trail on the same path, to methodise
the code of narrative to stop believing in change
and believe in the status quo, believe in no change
start believing the tales, in the news,
that the cause of inflation lies in my body
that it is not temperature change rather it’s my body
that what’s learned can be unlearned at the same school
that ideas can be erased through provocative articles
that nothing is happening, nothing, nothing
that the truth is visible from the podium
till we learn what is said is right and wrong is what we think
right and wrong exist like peace and violence
like freedom and slavery, like power and politics
till we learn the new language,
till we worship the new incarnations like
Stalin, Hitler, Mussolini, Lenin, Mao, Idi….

My friend, you’ll see the shore where the blue sky
pours its buckets of glaring sunlight; nearby ridges beckon
with wings of fresh green foliage.

A chilly wind often wafts in from the Pacific; this is San Francisco.

When you arrive,
you’ll find the Golden Gate Bridge, like cherry blossoms, linking north
and south.

We could lounge on Baker Beach,
and at Fisherman’s Wharf, savor the coastline. At Pier 23 Cafe, we’ll
drink and dance.

We could set our chairs facing the waves,
gazing at a myriad of stars in the brilliant night sky.

With the fatigue of life’s long journey behind us, we see a crowd,
a host of yellow daffodils,
fluttering and dancing along the beach like the women we might meet.

=====

I look different in every mirror,
Taller or shorter,
Hair darker or lighter,
I don’t even know what I look like.

I care so much,
About what I see,
Wether its different
Or the same as yesterday.

It has such an influence on me.
What will I wear today,
How much will I eat,
Do I need a lot of makeup.

I can’t help it,
Every time I see something reflective,
I look at myself,
Expecting something to have changed.

How many hours have I spent,
Picking myself apart
While sitting infront of a mirror.
Why can’t I stop?

More than anything – I want to dance;
in a small city
in another country,
outside on the patio
of a Mediterranean
cobblestone bistro – vino tinto and some warm bread on the table.

Break the limbs and let it be new,
the tree of life is ever birthing.
Coursing with vigor and resolve,
and never asking or apologizing.

Emerald beaches, lamplight bubbles,
the hardened soil
walkways weaving between adobes lively with hearth;
and a feast for the wanting.

Greens and yellows, browns and
oranges; oranges and cherries.

2025
the year of our Lord
wait
no
not that savior
who turns us
topsy turvy at the
whim of a crooked grin and
lies that spill from it
slick oil, poison words
that loosen us from gravity
the world gets flipped on its head,
more crying babies, mamas,
answers, PLEASE!
Then, shock and awe when
the snowglobe of this
breakable reality gets
set right again
well, right-ish…
actually, the table is sort of slanted
and we’re laying on our side now
and we’re rolling off the the edge now
a free fall into precarious
uncertain futures
except one where
skin meets skin
and we entangle limbs
and lives
and outcomes
and your dignity
is mine
mine is yours
futures where
talk to your neighbor means
check in with family
and when those in helmets and boots
come knocking
ready to take one
they better be prepared
to take us all.

There are still squirrels in the park today
The sun still rose and the birds still sang
The leaves are falling and the train is running late
Everything is different
Everything is the same

The air is fresh between wildfires
The morning sky is pink and gray
The wan smile of a stranger passing by
Everything is different
Everything is the same

Red autumn leaves blanket dead rotting lawns
Obscuring worms and spiders
If I can’t see them, are they there?
If I don’t feel them, are they real?

There are still squirrels in the park today
The sun still rose and the birds still sang
Nothing has changed but everything has
Everything is different
Everything is the same

I go to church on Fridays now.
On the walk over I spray perfume on my wrists and rehearse my lines,
When I bow my head there are no bells to distract me.
The pastor’s wife scolds me for my makeup, my perfume,
tells me to give my mother a call.
You’ve become 老外 (“foreigner”), she says,
you worry too much about the world,
and you forget God and your mother.
For a moment I think she might be right, but then
the worship team plays an old hymn
from when I was five, maybe, or fifteen,
and I am reminded that I have never forgotten anything.
I smoke a cigarette on the walk back.

In class I argue in my second language
about what it means to be a good person.
I will never win this argument, I can
use esoteric words,
quote Ovid and Augustine in Latin,
but they are not forgetting that I am an Asian girl
who goes to church on Sundays Fridays.
Some arguments can only be won by the right people.
The white girls look surprised when I say fuck,
I want them to see me smoke a cigarette.

My life in America sums up to this:
a continuous attempt to justify my presence.
A man told me I do not understand beauty,
so now I write poetry to prove him wrong.
I have proven nothing thus far,
I do not know what makes a good poem,
just like I do not know what makes a good person,
or a good daughter.
I came to this country believing in a monstrous world,
and it is very big indeed.
To be a person big enough for it
one must forget some things,
or become more persons.

A man told me I love you
but he was looking past me,
at the writing on the wall,
or at the me in the other room.
A man told me it was finished,
and I relearned what my father taught me ages ago:
there is no graceful way to become unloved.
I have tried so hard to grow up I have started growing sideways.

But this is what they don’t tell us:
the world is as big and small as you choose.
You can have your small world,
you can have many worlds,
if you want it.
You have to really, really want it.

I call my mother and tell her,
that I have had my heart broken in the land of opportunity,
that I am learning how to mold my grievances into something
a little more human,
that I am realizing how to be many things all at once
without splitting into a million pieces.
How American, she replies,
Richard’s sister got into Yale.

These days I make the air lighter to breathe.
I practice growing.
I practice losing.
I practice knowing some things.
I still do not know what makes a good poem,
and maybe I never will.
I write one anyway.

Steps on fallen petals in the sunny courtyard
roses and tulips, gone with winter
each step so soft
and now asleep so hard in the next room
I sip coffee and breathe on my own.

I open a window
sirens streak down Venice Boulevard
little birds call into the gusty evening–
a warning.

I am a mother now and my clothes map the day
my heart layers thick like full pots of red paint and swirling turquoise
I hold my baby gently when he wakes at midnight
pebbles striking the windows
we sit and rock in rhythm to the eerie wind requiem.

Ash falls, scraps of earth and mortar
drifting onto the foam puzzle pieces that line the floor of our balcony
my son’s wooden car, a single flower pot,
the plastic table lined with coffee rings
we bring it all in.

Little toes curling in sandy water
feeling the sea for the first time–
now we are barricaded indoors
breathing this air could lead to permanent damage
we strip the internet for information on how to keep his lungs safe.

I hold him tightly in my arms
rosebud cheeks and little lips
we zoom out of town.

Museums, indoor play places that end in exclamation points like
Explore IT! and Rivers and Lilies! FUN!
the Westfield Mall
we visit Target and Bath and Bodyworks
my son has learned to say “hi!” and “buh-bye!”
he greets all the shopkeepers
the Cinnabon employees know us by name.
Blossoming, my tiny flower
filled now with his own dreams.

Finally some relief
rain brings better air but alas,
my little son has stopped asking to go outdoors.

The Brain one of the most important organs in the human body
One that allows us to create memories
Like the ones we love
The ones we hate
The ones that make us sad
The ones that makes us glad
Like going to the amusement park with friends
Like your first kiss
Like the ones you look at and think why did I do that
But those are essential to Mature and Grow
Like your first fight
Your first mistake
Your first Love
Your first time you almost kissed
And your first heart break