Woman’s Life

In her teens, she was full of curiosity about that.
In her twenties, she knew what that was.
In her thirties, she enjoyed that.
In her forties, she badgered about that.
In her fifties, she bought that.
In her sixties, she prayed for that.
In her seventies, she forgot what that was.
In her eighties, she didn’t know what they were talking about.
In her nineties, nothing mattered.

I can’t satisfy her curiosity.
I got nothing to let her know.
I can’t quench her joy.
I can’t give her desire a disappointment.
I am not for sale.
I am not an answer for her prayer.
I don’t want to remind her of that thing.
I don’t have to tell her what they were talking about.
We are just staring at each other blankly.
Nothing matters.

Woman’s life?
Man’s life….

Doe

As the doe pants for streams of water,
So the buck longs for the doe.
As David’s soul pants for God,
My soul longs for you.
Like a doe that wanders around for water,
I, like a buck, would fill my hollow heart with yearning,
sniffing the scent of you small footprints.

You are my beloved doe.
As David’s heart is ripped to pieces,
and his soul is broken into fragments
by longing for God,
even though My heart is exploded,
My life is shattered into dust and
is blown up in the air,
as if the buck jumps with joy
at the trace of the doe,
as if David is rejoiced at the voice of God,
longing is my energy.

The doe that is drinking water in the stream,
How fortunate I am
Since I can only see its shadow!
The buck that is watching doe’s shadow behind a tree,
being afraid that its longing might get away…

Don’t Crush My Mind of Love

You I love!
Don’t crush my mind of loving you.
My love is my most precious treasure.

You I love!
Don’t put my love in a flower vase to watch.
This love is my daily bread.

You I love!
Don’t boast of being loved.
I am living in deep pain because of this love.

You I love!
Don’t ridicule my love.
This love is all of my life.

You I love!
Don’t doubt my love.
I don’t want anything from you.

You I love!
Don’t enjoy being loved too much.
My love might turn into hatred.

You I love!
Won’t you love too?
The joy of loving is far greater than
The joy of being loved.

The Joy of Cleaning

I could get joy from cleaning my house.
Is that even feasible, practical?
House cleaning is a chore, a vicious animal
In which I try to find an excuse
For skipping this or next week
No matter how freakily the excuse would creak.
Now I say ‘joy’ out of cleaning my house?

Well, am I trying to squeeze joy out of nothing
‘Cause I can’t find any joy in this world of constant bumping?

This was true, however, no matter how dingy.
I enjoyed the clean house because I didn’t clean,
But Roomba, a dumb robot but smart enough to clean,
Did. The only thing I did was to make the house filthy.

This is exactly what the sacraments of Reconciliation is all about.
I sin, but Confession cleanses me without any of my efforts.
The only thing I do is to make myself a dirty and unclean snout.
I see clean me and is joyous.
I got joy because I don’t do anything to avoid my spiritual drought.
The not-so-dumb priest does just like Rooma does for my house!

This shouldn’t be a joy of cleaning
But a joy of doing nothing?
Then why can’t I enjoy Confession and rarely do?
This is one of many mysteries of faith with hue.

Now, dumb Roomba is gone.
Holy Confession is gone.
I clean my house myself
‘Cause she says smiling, “I like the clean house”.
Then I clean my sins myself?
‘Cause she says giggling, “I love the clean man.”?