The sky that was so blue so lofty
suddenly blocks my eyes with darkness
and my mind that flied high with vast wings
abruptly feels a millstone hanged in the neck,
so, I throw a deep sigh,
then, “Been there done that”,
says an aged flower that monkeys
the elegant flapping of a swallowtail.
When a hoary flower that never left the place
where it was born tries to cover with its shadow
the colorful butterfly that roamed around
a plethora of flower gardens,
the butterfly tries to leave the garden.
Here is not a flower garden.
Aren’t you bored – the rusty relationship
between flower and butterfly?
Make the flower a sparrow
and give it away as a food.
The butterfly could become a sparrow too.
Otherwise, becoming a bigger bird
and leave this place for good…or not.
in an empty
winter morning park,
the autumn is still lingering,
welcoming me with a red-carpet
covered with brown leaves.
Nude trees are seducing me
as if women in red-light street
are doing for stranded men.
The high and blue sky
is woman’s mind
not wanting to say good-bye.
The winter maybe is the owner of the park,
but my heart hugs a piece of autumn sky
and my pocket cherishes a crumbled fallen leaf
and my hand grabs a naked twig.
The autumn driven away by the winter
is building its nest in me.
I meet a woman whose name is Autumn,
a woman who blossoms only in autumn;
a little bird in a winter park,
that is singing farewell,
but won’t leave.
A short poem her poet sent;
A woman, digging up the thick forest,
is trying to touch
the love of the poet.
Finally, catching an unfathomable word
and hugging it just like a puppy,
she mumbles, “this might be his confession of love?”.
Poet’s woman reads and reads and reads again
and chews and chews and chews again the word.
“No woman, no poem”,
the poet never stops singing women.
“Is this woman me?
Rummaging his myriad poems
that are more than his women,
and trying to find her image,
the woman wants to feel his love for her
Watching poet who is dreaming
in the flower garden again today,
the woman who loves the poet,
is waiting for a simple sentence, ‘
I love you’
through his sexy baritone voice,
not through his convoluted poems.
Don’t use that kind of vulgar word.
I deny that kind of religious and lascivious terminology.
There is no such kind of desolate word in my dictionary.
This colorful struggle is
My invitation that
Is trying to embrace
In my small space.
In Jesus’ flashy family tree
in where sinful flowers blossom,
I feel the real original sinful one missing
But the hidden flower turns out to be Ruth
who has been fuming sweet fragrance since Genesis.
What sneaked into Boaz’ bedroom
was a scent of cheap perfume.
Her deep-rooted brand-name scent
is from Sodom crushed by raging fire.
She is a descendant of Edom
that was built on grave sin –
rooted deep in incest.
The grace that showers the world full of sin.
What blessing could be bigger since the path
through which God can come down to this world
has been found in sinful flower garden!
The Nebraska stretch of I-80 has no curves just like
nude model’s legs. So, you don’t need to use steering
wheel and what you can see is only corn fields, the sky,
the road and a few cars. To go through this part in one
piece might be the same as to survive in a fierce battle.
Space travel could be worse than hitting dismal Nebraska
I-80. Even after decades of flying, only you can see is pitch-
black space and stars, stars, stars that never get closer.
Probably nobody would expect to go back to Earth alive.
Just like a spaceship flying diligently to the destination
that may not be reached, I run zealously, but running
running running don’t change the scenery so looks like
the time stops. The only way to endure this agony is to
trash the heavy sack that is being dragged along and
forget where I am running to and to become AI and just run.
Space travel is no big deal since I am already doing it.
With the door of the cage
open, I am dreaming a dream
In which that little pretty bird
Is singing in this cage.
The rumor that I have a great
cage is still just a rumor.
So, all kinds of so-so birds
fly in and out of my cage.
When the cage is winged
and rises like a full moon,
the pretty bird might see
it and dream a cute dream.
The cage that meets the bird
on a road in its dream. The bird
that won’t come in. The cage
and the bird that are only gazing
at each other. But, they look happy.
While they are watching each other,
the dangling bird that is pecking
the cage once in a blue moon.
The cage that is singing a happy
poem. Just like this, the bird cage
and the bird that have become a legend.