I Shall Be a Flower 34: Love

You don’t have to say ‘I love you’,
even if you are really in love.
Rather than the word ‘love’
that floats around like a madfly at summer day,
love is to smell the spot
that I was sitting.
If that is a real love,
the rusty smell of my life would be a sweet scent.
But I want to hear ‘I love you’,
even though it is really from her lust.
Well, can I survive the word ‘love’?
Just like when I wrote my first poem with pounding heart
after I heard the first confession of love,
I would finish this serial poetry with my heart
pounding like a fawn,
If I receive the confession love from her lips.

I Shall Be a Flower 29: A Bottomless Fantasy

A little fantasy that started from my throbbing heart
was too big for kid’s small mind,
so I wanted to run toward God’s bosom,
but while hesitating, hesitating, delaying, delaying,
the fantasy was growing, growing, getting bigger and bigger,
bouncing and jumping like a sparrow
and finally became an eagle and its wings covered the sky,
and lift the tent that shielded the bottom.
When I saw the white veil that wrapped the bottom,
my pounding heart removed the veil
and plunged into the bottom, into the bottom,
but the fantasy that penetrated deep into my life
and captured the dream of the flower,
has no bottom, doesn’t it?
Wishing the butterfly would dream the same fantasy…

My October Bride

On a splendid day in October,
Be my bride.
Treading on the fallen leaves
With your bare feet,
Wearing short wedding dress,
Boasting of your beautiful legs
On which moist drizzle is flowing down,
Come to me.
To spend the unforgettable
Last night of October,
Make today a wonderful day.
Before this October passes away,
Be my bride.
To greet ash-colored November
With blue-sky-colored heart,
Be my October bride.

***
Wondering who this woman would be…

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?

Your Own Song

Sing your own song
Dance your own dance
Show your own heart
Not in the dark night
Not under the moonlight
But in broad daylight
On the busy street

If you are not a dog
Not a cat…or not those kinds…
People will sing with you
People will dance with you
People will show their hearts

What if people just watch?
What if people ignore you?
What if nobody is around you?
Call them dogs, cats..or those kinds…

What is what it is
You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?