Author: poetryfest

The junior lady doctor was planning to expose
The heinous acts in the hospital –
Illegal selling of organs and sex with dead
Her life lamp was put off by male monsters after rape.

A woman married a politician at the middle age
Though had a grownup son from the first marriage
She was murdered in a hotel while staying with her spouse
Though her husband was the suspect, it could not be proved.

A film actress was on a holiday tour abroad with husband
They were about to go out from hotel for entertainment
She died inside the bath room in the bathtub
While her husband was sitting outside in the suite.

Wife fell in love with the husband’s friend
She made him drunk to the brim
Sat on his chest and strangulated him
For living with her paramour.

The husband did not like the chicken curry
Made by his wife, a quarrel ensued
The woman along with her sister killed the man
With an iron rod.

A man took a six years old girl to a secluded place
He was about to rape the child
Monkeys nearby attacked the man
Animal proved to be better than human.

The seedlings
of the mountain, Bunohon

The ground flaring
Eyes of the sun enter
The dome
Giant trees
Splashing

Rippling, the forest echo
Sing to present and suspended
Songs had been heard.

The poem is based on: The legend of the Seediq—one of the Taiwan indigenous ethnic groups. In ancient times, a big tree grew on Bunohon Rock in the Ngungu dgiyaq silung mountain. Half of this tree is wood and the other half is rock. One day the man and the woman came out from the tree trunk. They are two gods and gave birth to many children of Seediq.

An endless hunger gnaws at my belly,
A starvation that can hardly be sated.
What if death is the final completion?
What if life ends in a blissful explosion—
The ecstasy we’ve chased our whole lives?
We knocked on every door, invited others in,
Brewed tea and talked endlessly,
Striving to grasp that elusive “something”
Always just beyond our reach.
At times we thought we nearly had it,
But it vanished like butter melting away
Between our desperate, grasping fingers—
An image conjured by a starving mind.
Now I’m licking my fingers clean,
Peering through others’ windows
As they indulge in their sumptuous feast.

The healing found in nature
compares to no other,
Mother Earth openly welcomes me
as the winter frost melts away.

If only she could understand,
how difficult it was to live without
her soft breeze and bright light
as the cold, brisk winds roared fervently.

Slight hues of green graciously
Emerge as a sacred dance,
along the grounds interwoven
with remnants of last season’s decay.

My heart flutters open as I tether to her –
remember we are one,
recognize her beauty in myself
and the souls that surround me.

No matter how distinct life may seem,
month after month, year after year,
she undoubtedly invites me
into her warm embrace under the setting sun.

I feel nothing but an overwhelming tranquility,
a deep surrender to her peaceful melodies,
as she lovingly reminds me of
who I am and where I come from.

He’s below my window
Somewhere to the left
He brought flowers today
A cactus yesterday
Watered it when it pricked me

He brought flowers today
I brought pink colors yesterday
Pink hair, between his fingers
I remember him thinking
Thinking, thinking

“I need a challenge,”
He told me
“I need a game”
He told me
He brought flowers today
I said “Pink colors” yesterday

Last night was a blur
Last night was boring
It was rainy and loud
and honestly droning
Bright pink in a dark, damp sea
Yes, it was boring

Would I kiss him then?
He had asked me
Would I love him then?
He had asked me
Bright pink in a dark, damp sea
Yes, it was boring

Pink hair between his fingers
Below my window, to the left
I need it again
I need it again
Oh no, it was boring

But today
He brought flowers today,
He brought flowers today,
His body brought flowers today,
They’re growing nicely.

I ate you in chickpea

salad and over salmon

previously frozen and

transported to Stop &

Shop weeks earlier in a

white van. I dropped a few of

your sprigs in eggs one

sour morning before dawn.

I was rarely grateful, or at

least not conscious of

my gratitude; yet I did

enjoy the herby vivaciousness

you provided, because it

filled me with fleeting pleasure.

I even found cashews flavored

like you at Aldi’s, and I enjoyed

them somewhat, because they

were buried with piles

of salt and reeked of pickles.

They were not the same as

you. But one day you turned a

deep shade of beige, reminding

me of foods that might appeal

to young children who care not

for anything but themselves

and the prepackaged processed

foods that come in plastic pouches

inside of recyclable boxes that

are often yellow or red. And

you destroyed my appetite.

You sprouted into a chicken

nugget fermenting on the counter.

I could no longer look upon you

favorably. But then the strangest

thing occurred. Even you could

not believe it. You

found a second life, in your bile-

colored empirical state.

Pollinator after pollinator deemed

you the most appetizing treat

in a menu of garden goodies.

Hummingbirds, bees, flies,

butterflies and others arrived to

drink, seduced by your ugly

browned stem: bruised

from overexposure to sunshine,

it appeared almost burnt, really,

and your flowers were

the color of a lemon left

for months in the

back of a refrigerator

drawer. And I watched

for a while until the end

of gardening season, when,

in a jealous rage, I tore

you from your home

and threw you, roots and all,

into the driveway, where

I watched, for weeks, as

you shriveled and died.

and it left me quite dissatisfied,

grim and hopeless,

morning and night.

I drove over you with my

car, again and again, until

you became one with asphalt.

In my room
My Lover turns
From a god to a man
To a god again
Seconds before
His mortal life ends

In my room
Dozens of eyes
On shelves
Reading versions of virgins
To themselves

In my room
Some of my bones
Are machine made
And some are home grown

In my room
My heart
beats to beat the dark
First and again

In my room
All my words
fist into fractions
In time for language to end

In my room
I turn the lord into “gold”
Weigh it, price it
And it is sold

In my room
Sunlight is slain
And turned to shade
Under the world is laid

In my room
My lover came
As dust
Returned as Ashes
No Earth

In my room
I regress
Making a womb
Out of this room.

In my room
My life suspends
in silence
A rage for men

This is my room.
I don’t mind.
I make it;
Afterall,
It is mine.

She arrives in a whisper.

The hands of our time all point in different directions, the steady tick-tock of our life. For some it’s early, for others, the clock approaches midnight, and those of the unfortunate—the hands of their time spun forward… ticking… ticking… ticking… More powerful than lightning, always ready to strike, without warning, or with poison.

She has the power to break the bond between man and wife. Uncompassionate and gutless are her ways. She will steal the future from the youth and strangle the past from the wise.

Never does she sleep. She waits and watches, patient like love, but never kind. She can be slow, and sometimes that’s worse.

Her sinister, dark hand comes down upon the earth; a cold claw that takes away those whose time is up.

She is the draught of our fountain.

Like the hidden things that crawl into the earth, she brings down her hammer in secret, wielding no mercy.

From the ground on which we were born, she is the one who will grind us into dust and return us to the earth. She is the shadow that covers our light, the eclipse of our sun.

She ends the gift, returning us to darkness.

She is the unwanted promise, which is our broken clock.

She leaves with a shout

Early in the day, the couple was wed
The crowd rejoiced when I dos were said
But touches in apathy
Wouldn’t end happily
By morning the bridegroom was dead

A sharp song of the wind, shrieking through the twisted trees;
The knotted branches that wail within the breeze;
Rocky pathways scattered, alluring but dangerous.
I alone stare into this desolate abyss.

O’er me towers a shadow of unknown origin,
An ominous silhouette that is anything but porcelain,
Encourages me to walk onto this empty path,
And ensure I will never look back.

Wavering, whispering, willows in the woods,
Thousands of branches with mystical goods.
Swooping and soaring as if spirits rise,
A symphony of spirits haunting cries.

I stumble upon the empty path,
The silhouette stood waiting for my wrath.
Upon entrance do I sight
An unknown mystery with nothing bright.

Shadows of mortality, I sight a smooth stone.
Engraved in the markings, “come back to your home.”
A cold companion for the soul’s own place,
A silent way to mark down my days.
A chilling reminder of the path I have traced.

Engraved in such is frightening memorial,
Words etched in time’s ceaseless flow.

RIP
[REDACTED]
[MM/DD/YY] – [MM/DD/YY]

A vision sinister that can not be grasped.
A haunted specter that kept others masked.
Here lies my name, a marker divine.
A haunting echo was buried in time.

A venture to leave the Forest of Dread,
A poor wretch wandering through a hollow.
Ghosts and souls will forever follow.

Swiftly I roam and ponder about,
With each turn I turn astray.
This haunted forest, a realm of dismay.
A possession of mine I no longer hold,
An ominous silhouette, a companion bold.
Before I could grasp, I was in the silhouettes clutch.
A day of death’s final ambush.

Today I meet the graves embrace,
Today I lie without a trace.
Burrowed six feet under, my cries unheard.
A silent whimper, could it be simpler?

Time passes by without a wonder,
A gruesome fate was all I could ponder.
An underground burrow, death’s feast profound,
Foul decay as my life starts to drown.
A sickening refrain, a helpless man.