Trauma in the Flower Garden

Perhaps I chewed too much the memory
of playing in the flower garden; now bitter
juice flows from it. I’ve been living with the

sweet taste of the memory; all of a sudden,
bitter taste runs over the picture; it distorts
the look of joy; the sewer stink from the

flower transforms the struggle of passion
into the labor for survival and the moaning
of ecstasy into the shriek of death. I kept

taking out and lick the cherished memory;
its sweet skin that’s been barely holding is
peeled off and the pain and would that have

been hidden are crawling all over my mind
just like worms are roaming around in the rain.
In the end, beauty is just a single layer? The

happy moment was just a dream? The flower
garden was a just mirage? Should I take the
picture down and burn it with fallen leaves?



I was duped
by my own not-too-unrealistic imagination
by my own never-ending greed
by my own not-so-passionate desire
by my own not-to-be-filled emptiness

I was duped
by my own ardent-looking prayer

I was duped
by my own ever-deceptive ME

Just like an ever-gullible woman who
is waiting for another doomsday
even more passionately even after
many world-ending prophesy failed,

I keep praying
with my colorful imagination
with my growing greed
with my passionate desire
with my hollow emptiness

I will be duped again and again
‘till I stop praying
in front of real Jesus
who would never dupe me but

how will I know he is real?
I might be duped again by my beautiful Jesus
who my creative brain created…

Is there any way to get out of this duping business?


Where is he from?
(Who would care?)
The man who is sitting opposite to me
Is eating breakfast with great enthusiasm,
Which he maybe picked up from Macdonald.
(Perhaps from different place…who would care?)

I am reading a book of poetry with elegant posture
(If poetry were elegant…)
After one poem,
I watch the breakfast that is being eaten enthusiastically.
And after another poem
I watch the man who is eating impassionedly.
And after another poem
I look around the idle Saturday morning.
(If Saturday were idle…)

If I had been eating poems
With great enthusiasm like his,
Maybe right at this time,
At this garage for commoners
My book of poetry would be being read elegantly.
(if my poems were elegant…)
What a fantasy for me and/or poetry?!

Once Upon a Time in a Forest…

Long, long ago
Doesn’t matter how long,
Since it is too long for him anyway.
A boy played in a forest far from the world
Nobody couldn’t get to that secret place but
A small trail was wide open for the boy
Who was looking for a small cute pond for a cool bath
The boy, now a man, has a huge regret.
He didn’t explore the forest enough to remember
All the corners in detail.
He should have emitted his cherished desire.
He could have plunged in the pond without thinking.
Ah! He couldn’t enjoy the scenery, the touch, the smell, the sound
Of the forest and his relative youth,
‘Cause the cruel world suppressed his passion.
Now he misses the forest and wants to go there again,
Which is beyond his grasp.
He paints the forest and its small pond and
Hang it on the dark corner of his mind,
Wishing it were a real picture of the still wide open forest and
His sacred pond untouched by savage beasts.

Greedy Mary (Luke 1: 28-38)

I return to the past and am roaming around the Nazareth area.
I’ve found I believe I am a prophet.
I stop by a small house.
Through the window I can see a young girl praying.
She surely is Mary…
I yell in front of the window, “Anybody home?”

Mary stops praying and open the door to greet me.
“Who are you?  What brings you here?”

I tell her with an austere manner,
“I am a prophet from the future and I’ve been sent to deliver God’s message.”

May’s face brightens and says,
“Please come in…”

When I sit, Mary asks me with a curious look,
“What message do you bring here?”

I say with a cheerful voice,
“Mary, you are the blessed one”

Coming closer to me, Mary whispers,
“What kind of blessing will be given to me?”

I clear my throat and proclaim solemnly,
“God says Messiah will come to this world through you.”

May replies with a bit disappointed look,
“You say the child by my fiancé Joseph will become Messiah?
We’re still far away from getting married”

I straighten my posture and proclaim again like a thunder,
“Not the child by your fiancée.
This child is God’s son and he will come to your body through the Holy Spirit.”

Mary doesn’t bother to hide her joy and says,
“Then this means I will be pregnant with God’s son.”

I ask her with a concerned look,
“If a woman who doesn’t know man were pregnant, she could be killed.”

Mary says with a confident look,
“If the child is really God’s son, that wouldn’t happen.
I can take that risk if I can become the Mother of God.”

I am a bit shocked and say,
“Are you sure you understand the message?”

With two hands together, Mary says,
“May God’s word to me be fulfilled.”

Confused and foggy, I leave Mary’s house.

Mary was ready.
Out of spiritual greed and/or a modicum of secular vanity and
With something like passion-of-the-Christ,
She was getting thoroughly ready to
Take Messiah in her body
Even though she knew her life was in danger.

No wonder she said ‘yes’ without hesitation
When the angel delivered God’s message,
As depicted in the Bible.