A Daydream during the Last Holy Week

During the last Holy Week
my heart was unusually hammering
not because Mary Magdalene’s heart
was transplanted to me,
which was yearning for Jesus’ Resurrection
but because my woman’s heart was thumping in me,
who would meet me on Easter Day for the first time.
Mary Magdalene’s heart that met Jesus
became the calm Galilee,
but why is the woman’s heart that met me
still whirling like the Tiberias under a storm?
Because of me who was pacing around
in front of the wide-open door and couldn’t enter?
During the next year’s Holy Week
would my heart be pounding instead of her heart?

A Daydream during Lent

In the middle of just another Lent;

I didn’t know spring would come only after Easter.
I didn’t know a new life had been brewing during the winter.
Something tremendous must be in store for me.
Something magnificent should be being shaped for me.

Those amazing things will come to life after Easter, only after Easter.
Snow in March won’t be able to blanket scurrying spring.
Cold rain won’t be able to flood resting spring.
They only will reinforce the hope for Resurrection in Easter.

What would be more fantastic and splendid than Jesus’ Resurrection?
So I expect something a lot less marvelous and with no impression;
a lot smaller and insignificant and trivial to none-me,
but something gargantuan and meaningful to me, only to me.

I clean up my room packed with trash
to make rooms for something wonderful.
My heart is pounding with lots of thrash.
I am holding my breath for anything fanciful.

Wake up, buddy! This shouldn’t be a dream.
Pounding heart in your dream is your heart.
You are holding your breath, not others’ in your dream
Keep dreaming ‘til real life wakes up in your heart.

Still, don’t be disappointed even though
Jesus is still in the tomb after Easter.
Wipe out ‘disappointment’ and grow.
Write down ‘enlightenment’ for your Master.

Wouldn’t ‘excitement’ be greatly better, would it?

Profane Thoughts in Sunday Morning Mass

A self-proclaimed poet who has been walking
in a desert desperately looking for Hippocrene
for quite some time is attending Sunday Morning

Holy Mass alone. Alas! Two beautiful women enter
the sanctuary and take a pew right in front of the
nameless poet. Their not-so-cheap perfume arouses

poet’s imagination. They look intimate, almost too
intimate; they look lovely. They seem to love each
other; they must be lovers. How fitting in the holy

place full of Jesus’ love! The poet recalls the scenes
of last night’s les porno and replaces the actresses
with two women in front. Better than straight adulterous

lovers, aren’t they? God’s providence – the poet who
didn’t want to go to Mass was drawn to it and found
the beautiful image and wrote this weird poem – works

in mysterious way. The nameless self-proclaimed poet
got another big inspiration but it is too holy to mention
in this blasphemous poem. Thanks and Praise Lord!

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.


Mind of a butterfly,
hovering over a flower
even when it’s taking a nap
with its wings folded;
Flower is THE treasure of a butterfly.

What is my treasure?
Who is my treasure?
My mind;
Where is it wandering around?
Where is it snooping around?

My delighted smile;
Sweet dreaming?
Not because of a vision of Jesus;
I am still a butterfly
even with my feeble flip-flap.

The follower I dumped

No matter how beautiful it is,
if it won’t seduce me
with its fragrance,
if it won’t greet me
with its warm heart,
it would be just
a flower in a vase,
a unnecessary attraction to innocent bystanders,
a cheap decoration in a so-so restaurant.
The flower that was thrown in the garbage can
even before it was touched by my hands.

I’ve written poems for this flower, so
If I excrete it from my mind,
It will bequeath beautiful poems, but
the flower I dumped,
whose flower will it become and
be thrown away again?

‘Cause of my spirit of mercy,
It would take long to realize that
I’ve been trashed by the flower…


In a room that is darker than the hair
of a virgin ghost, a candlelight that
is smaller than a mustard seed will
light up this not-so-small room bright
and make cockroaches take flight
and make the ghost vent her spite
in a dark dark mountain outside.
Then why can’t I light the candle?
I don’t have to see anyway. In no
time, my eyes will get used to the
dark and I can see what I want to
see. I won’t have to drive the vengeful
ghost out with lighted candle. I will
take revenge for her. I didn’t know
this small candle was so powerful…