A Sand Castle

The Sea of Galilee;
the name I’ve heard in the Bible.
The touch of its water
I can feel in the photos others took.
The sand of its beach;
I’ve heard it is as hard as cement.
The pretty castle I’ve built with the sand
reels from the flaps of a passing sea gull;
then the Sea of Galilee becomes
a picture hanging on a wall.
Hey, buddy!
Why don’t try to soak your feet
in the water of the Sea?

Trauma in the Flower Garden

Perhaps I chewed too much the memory
of playing in the flower garden; now bitter
juice flows from it. I’ve been living with the

sweet taste of the memory; all of a sudden,
bitter taste runs over the picture; it distorts
the look of joy; the sewer stink from the

flower transforms the struggle of passion
into the labor for survival and the moaning
of ecstasy into the shriek of death. I kept

taking out and lick the cherished memory;
its sweet skin that’s been barely holding is
peeled off and the pain and would that have

been hidden are crawling all over my mind
just like worms are roaming around in the rain.
In the end, beauty is just a single layer? The

happy moment was just a dream? The flower
garden was a just mirage? Should I take the
picture down and burn it with fallen leaves?


I want it –
If there is an android that can
sing a pretty song,
write a abstruse poem,
paint a mysterious picture,
dance a sexy dance and
have eyes as limpid as hers.

I will fall in love with it,
hold it in my arms all night,
throw the cold body
into the trash can
without recharging it

Maybe she is an android too?
Well, even if so,
I don’t mind being disappointed after
I drink the midwinter chilly air
from her body.

Probably I need a bigger trash can?
Yeah, adults need toys too.

Not Done Enough

Countless afternoons in her room
Numerous nights in my office
Many times in his chair
Once in a guest room in that convent
Failed in a medium-priced hotel room
Failed in a shabby and cold motel room
Never tried in a car
Not on my bed
Was pretty close in my sofa
Thought about by the nuns’ cemetery
And a few more here and there
Plenty of rotten things in my fantasy
That’s it?
Try to rake out memories from deep corner
These are stinking skeletons in your deep pocket?
Well, not done yet
You confessed these petty stuff as sins?
You must see a filthy dog in your mirror
Not done enough

The Thinking Dog

I want to call that guy ‘philosopher dog’;
His eyes that are gazing at the void,
Serious look that are not like dog’s,
Tenaciousness of not moving for a long
time. Is he meditating life? Otherwise
only thoughts of eating are stuffed in
that small head? How would I know that?
But out of human pride and prejudice
I would say; no matter what and how you
think, you are just a dog, you know.

My nickname was ‘philosopher’; sleepy
eyes, the look as if I shoulder all the
anguish in the world, out-of-body status
– sitting for a long time without saying a
word. People are wondering – what is that
guy thinking about, but in my head, most
of thoughts are about women. Right. The
almighty God would say; no matter what
and how you think, you are just a creature.

Between God and I, the whole universe
would be able to be inserted, but between
my dog and I, even a single mayfly can’t
get through, so we together should thinkers.
After all, men’s best friend is dogs…
(Jesus too claims He is my best friend…)

Why Am I Here?

I am sitting on a wet blanket
Where is this blanket from?
Unpleasant as if I am lying in a casket
What am I going to become?

I am sinking in this nasty mud
Who put this mud here?
Restless as if I am a lonely stud
When am I going to disappear?

I am gazing at the gray sky
Who painted the sky dull?
Depressing as if I hear woman’s cry
When am I going to cry like a gull?

I can go on and on and on
But no answer to the question;
Why am I here?


As the doe pants for streams of water,
So the buck longs for the doe.
As David’s soul pants for God,
My soul longs for you.
Like a doe that wanders around for water,
I, like a buck, would fill my hollow heart with yearning,
sniffing the scent of you small footprints.

You are my beloved doe.
As David’s heart is ripped to pieces,
and his soul is broken into fragments
by longing for God,
even though My heart is exploded,
My life is shattered into dust and
is blown up in the air,
as if the buck jumps with joy
at the trace of the doe,
as if David is rejoiced at the voice of God,
longing is my energy.

The doe that is drinking water in the stream,
How fortunate I am
Since I can only see its shadow!
The buck that is watching doe’s shadow behind a tree,
being afraid that its longing might get away…