A Poet’s Woman

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”,
mimicking Picasso,
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.

In Her Dream

I was in her dream, she said.
Went somewhere with her, she said.
She invited me to a road in her dream, I thought,
‘cause that was the only road for her.
I have no memory of being in her dream, though.

Perhaps she loves me.
Pretending that she thinks this is ridiculous,
Just like a lady who spreads gossips in town,
Just like a puppy that frolics in the snowing backyard,
she’s become Samaritan woman
and advertises her dream wherever she goes.

I doubt she can hide her love for me like that.
Call me if you miss me. Don’t just dream.
Maybe it’s a joke that doesn’t look like a joke,
but what a world in which only a road in dream
is allowed. That a man loves a woman is a problem?

How many women are waiting for me in the road of her dream?
Delusion is a daily bread for men so
I am always wandering in my dream
wondering which way to go.
No matter how you live, life is a dream,
If you dream a dream in your dream,
one of the dreams might become a real dream.

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.

The Secret of Hers

She gives me a safe-like box.
“Don’t open it!”
I don’t see a lock on it.
Her secret in this small case?
But I don’t try to open it
‘cause I love her

The safe might be empty;
it might reek of decaying bug;
Ah! the container might contain her un-lovable look,
I will still love her, though.

“So, will you open it or not?”

The empty safe will make me laugh away.
I can just trash a dead bug in it.
Her unlovable look cherished in there
will make me love her more.

She takes the safe away from me;
my daydream is broken.
The small box is sinking deep in the pond.
Her secret becomes a secret for good just like this.

I measure the depth of the tarn.
in secret.

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!

Woman with No Tears

She doesn’t have tears, I hear;
She can’t weep when dumped by a man.
So she used to kick man away first.
Giggling at the man holding his stick in agony,
She comforted her sorrow
that she couldn’t shed tears.

Alas! She can’t dump me, though;
In spite of those many crappy days together.
She might be humiliated by not being able to cry
If deserted by me.
She can’t enjoy throwing me away
She can’t do anything about loving somebody.

She says she doesn’t need tears.
She weeps with her whole body.
She sheds tears through her feeble flesh.
Tears doesn’t come out only from eyes, I should say
Shedding tears is not the same as weeping, is it?
She is always sobbing even without tears.

In this way, I am stuck in her,
since I can’t make her weep;
woman who can’t shed her tears….

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.