A Poor Painter

A poor painter -
building the world only for him -
won’t paint people’s world.
That is why he is so impoverished.
A beautiful woman -
crouching down her body -
is looking for a crack
to get in his tiny world.
How small are you -
Trying to come into my world;
A bird nest that is too small even for me?

An obscure poet who
fills his empty mind
with his own world,
Is a poor painter.
Fill your void with me fully.
Perhaps if you can see the people’s world,
you could be still poor but happy.

A Pioneer of Feminism (Esther 1:9-22)

When the beautiful Queen Vashti
(Is there a not-beautiful queen?…)
was giving a banquet for noble women and
was enjoying gossip of the palace,
(Women are women….both then and now…)
The sloshed King Xerxes,
Trying to show off the beauty of Queen Vashti to his nobles,
(Men are men…both then and now…)
summons Vashti to his banquet.
Then, see what happened!
The queen was supposed to run like a 100-meter Olympian
to the King in the most fancy garment.
But Vashti refused to come!
(Is this a true story?…)
If a rumor that the Queen disobeyed the King comes out,
all women would disdain their husband.
This judgment striped the Queenship from Vashti, but
it wouldn’t be surprise since pioneers are usually sacrificed.
No matter how glamorous the life in palace is,
She would rather live free as a country woman
than live as one of ornaments of her King husband.
(Nobody knows what happened to her after…)
This genuine feminism has been evolved…
Now men have become ornaments of women…
Would Vashti be pleased?

Life Is This Small

Sound of harmonica being played by a nameless
and faceless woman; I can only hear the green
music through the grapevine from the other side
of the Pacific, but the depression starts releasing
its tight grip little by little without letting me know.

The cheerful laughter of the woman I love;
I can hear the jangling only through my heart,
but happiness knocks on my window just like
a dew-soaked sparrow at autumn daybreak.

The fresh chorus of wild blossoms; I can only hear
through my desire-filled eyes, but the singing raises
my weighty life up, gives it a big bright smile and let
it stand up with a small stretch; The life that used to
tumble over a tiny jagged stone on a gravel road.

Now I realize
Life is this small.

His Idiotic Smile

He is a lot taller than me.
He runs a lot faster than me.
He must be a lot stronger than me.
He seems a lot more pious than me.
He speaks English a lot better than me.
He should be a lot better person than I.
A lot a lot a lot….

He smiles at me
everytime we catch each other
while he is running
while I am walking
in the opposite direction.

His smile looks friendly pure genuine innocent.
I know what those words sum up; idiotic.
Perhaps I am an idiot
looking for another idiot
just like a buddha wants to see only other buddhas.
Not a good analogy?
But good enough for an idiot who
doesn’t know how to smile at all
let alone to do idiotic one.

I ought to learn his idiotic smile.


Love is
to embrace it
with whole body,
knowing it will be pricked.
Love is
to take thorns
to the whole body and
to bleed to death,
dreaming a ridiculous dream
of full blossom
In a desert.
Love is
to die,
believing to die is not to die

The butterfly that never loved;
its incessant flutter
in front of the Rose -
to love or not to love.

Pretty Woman

She is black OK So what? Not again but
she is a pretty woman Who cares what
skin color she is wearing? I am willing to
be color-blind for pretty woman. She will
be forgiven no matter what she messes
up No wonder plastic surgeons rake money
As if Hugh Hefner still rolls up net full of
voluptuous women In his very advanced
age So be pretty women! Don’t be ashamed
of wasting money on your no-so-pretty face
It is not a waste You don’t have to confess
your filthy sins to a priest You can buy all
your future forgiveness by being pretty Why
I do write this kind of going-nowhere poem?
‘Cause at this not-so-young age I am still
a man yearning for young & pretty women

Dumped By His Own Father (Matthew 27:46)

Jesus was dumped by God – His own Father
just like I dump a trash bag of stinking garbage
A bag with no non-filthy stuff in a corner
Jesus was THE dumpster full of human carnage

No wonder His own Father forsook Him
Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?
Jesus was really abandoned by God’s whim
It was not a freak show from Dead Sea

Jesus was not acting as a Hero
He was so real so he looked phony
I can hear Jesus’ outcry in absolute zero
I could feel His despair as his crony

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?
I believe I am trashed too by my Creator
My body and mind is a trash bag full of sinful glee
The only way to join Jesus’ theater?

How about watching Mel Gibson’s
the Passion of the Crist and
How about feeling empathy for Jesus’
excruciating pain everybody shunned?