Mother of God

God envied people He created; they had mothers.
The Creator rushed down from Heaven devoid of Mother
to the Created on the Earth full of mothers.

God found a shy little girl called Mary
In a remote hamlet, a humongous cage.
Would you be my mother, red canary?
God danced when she sang YES onstage.

God flung the door open and Mary fluttered out of the cage.
He shouted like a thunder; now I have my own mother!

God was becoming a human inside a tender body.
God was becoming a boy with sweet milk of a woman.
He became a man under the tiny wings of a feeble lady.
He became a son of the most elegant human.

God whispered; I love you, Mother!

Poor Mary returned back God’s gargantuan love lavishly!
She made God smile by keep everything deep in her nous.
She made God not to abandon hope for humans easily
by crouching down at the foot of the Cross.

God who created mothers came to know;
mother’s bosom as vast as Heaven,
mother’s love deeper than the deepest well,
mother’s sacrifice beautiful only to the eyes of God,
mother’s suffering allowed only to mothers.

God wanted to magnify mother’s love dearly
by wiping Eve’s stain off Mary’s feathers
by re-creating Mary’s body lest it would rot vainly
by crowning her as Queen of Heaven and Earth
with a wreath highlighted by plenty of white roses.

Now I envy God;
He has the most beautiful Mother!

Yet God glorified us; here is your mother,
He pleased his Mother; here are your children,
while dying on the Cross; so concrete.
That’s God’s love; so complete.

Holy Mary, Mother of the Absolute.
How dare can we call you our mother?
Your son was nailed on the Cross by the resolute.
How can your son be our brother?

Now we have the most wonderful Mother.
She gives us her little love that raised God,
She feeds us her plentiful milk that fed God,
She leads us with her endurance that sustained God.

Mary has shrunken to become my little mother.
Mother of the Almighty has become plain mother of mine.
She willingly has become the mother of this miserable debtor.
She is having a happy life in Heaven with God in shine,
but she flies down to this world to raise us, to raise me.

Mother of God’s; Mother of ours; Mother of mine
Mother, Mother, Mother….

What’s going on, my son? Mary is your mother?!
Mom, she’s your mother too…
Nothing would matter, wouldn’t it, mom?

I crown the mother of my ducklings
as Queen of my Family
with a wreath adorned with wild flowers
and twigs delivered by cardinals.

The Dream of a Grass-blade

A grass-blade standing alone by the roadside,
The dream of a lonely-looking blade
Is by becoming a vast meadow
and by feeding a flock of sheep bellyful
to have it name fly high to the sky.
A dream; the bigger, the better,
but the wayside dream is just a dream,
A dream dreamt alone is just a dream.
A small advice to the grass-blade
from a drifter looking just like the grass
who is walking alone
with a humungous backpack on the back.

I am a flower; you are a butterfly

You are not a flower
blossoming alone in a desert.
I am not a starved butterfly
crossing a desert with heavy flaps.

You may be a nameless flower
blooming furtively in a dazzling rose garden.
I may be an obscure old scrubby butterfly
dancing in a glamorous group dance of butterflies.

Despite all of these,
a butterfly is seduced by your sweet nectar;
a flower is craving for an ecstasy
through my long winding proboscis.

Yeah!  It would be alright
if you are called a butterfly;
if I am called a flower.

A Swan

Out of the blue,
I feel I am a swan;
How hard it is to have an elegant life!
You are not a swan.
You are not elegant.
Ah! I see.
Hallucination is man’s must to survive,
but not easy to be living in
fantasy, delusion, illusion, imagination.
If I don’t call me swan,
I would be just a waddling duck.
Nah!
I see a few old birds
sitting on a branch,
enraptured with me.
Now my illusion has evolved
so I can see young birds as well.
Isn’t swan a bird too?

Dream On

It’s just a dream.
Don’t put it into your prison and/or
into your pathetically poor stream
of imagination without oar.
Give it a wing, an engine, whatever.
Kick it’s ass up high in the blue sky.
What if it won’t come true?
It’s just a dream hanging high
just like a piece of pie in the sky.
It’s not supposed to get through to you.
Ah! Nothing to lose
no matter how ridiculous your dream is.
So dream on and on…
as if you are in deep booze,
as if you are high on a low hill.

A Desire in Sunday Morning

God won’t appear to me and say;
“Leave hear and go there…”,
I am not obedient Abraham.

God won’t appear to me as a burning bush,
I am not old Moses with a dream of Exodus.

God won’t appear to me as baby Jesus,
I am not Mary waiting for Messiah.

Beautiful Bathsheba bathing on top of the world,
tore down David who had too many women,
would surely rip me in pieces, who have too few women.
God would know….

A picture of Tulip I painted when I was a kid
was hung on the wall of my Church.
Let’s paint a woman who would destroy me.

Let’s paint God who would reveal
My obedience,
My sleeping dream,
My baby-like tender mind.

Desert

I chew on sand in your poem.
Reading your poem won’t get my heart moist.
Why don’t you have a date?
Try to dip yourself deep in love.
Then your poem will get al dente with some moisture.
and make the small chest of a woman pound.
The poet who is looking around;
That flower garden was a mirage?
The poet who is crossing the desert;
built an oasis, but the material is only sand.
The flower garden is a hologram that came across the Pacific.
Maybe it is my hallucination;
Can I cross this desert
If I walk and walk and walk again while
chewing and chewing and chewing again the poems I wrote
when I was floundering deep in love?