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.

A Homeless Man

Good Morning! 
Today’s morning hello without skip.
A homeless man who
sang a song for me yesterday,
recited a gem of a poem to me last week,
preached the wisdom of life to me last month.
He will do them again tomorrow, next week, next month.
 
Why does he nest in my porch?
Why do I call him a homeless man?
Why do I willingly despise me who feel pity for him?
 
Tomorrow morning, would I try to greet him first,
who spent the night in my door step?
to prove that he is a hologram
to despise him without guilt, with comfort.
 
This bed I am sleeping on is a paper box?
This blanket I am covering myself with is a newspaper?
This house I am living in is a subway station?
This poem I am writing now is a deep sigh?
 
I hope not.

Night Fog

i read a poem
as if walking in a thick fog
in my dark room.
i read a poem
written by a woman
whose mind even God wouldn’t know.
i put out the dim candle light in the room;
i read a poem
without caring where this invisible road
in the night fog leads to.

with this feeling in the fog as it is
with this dark feeling as it is
i write a poem.
in order for the woman who loves me
to get lost in the night fog;
nah, she wouldn’t even look for a road.
i write a poem.
in order for her
to feel my small breath
to feel my shaking hands
to feel my bitter yearning
in the deep darkness
where even a single firefly
is not allowed,
i write a poem.

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?

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…

Toy

I want it –
If there is an android that can
sing a pretty song,
write a abstruse poem,
paint a mysterious picture,
dance a sexy dance and
have eyes as limpid as hers.

I will fall in love with it,
hold it in my arms all night,
throw the cold body
into the trash can
without recharging it

Maybe she is an android too?
Well, even if so,
I don’t mind being disappointed after
I drink the midwinter chilly air
from her body.

Probably I need a bigger trash can?
Yeah, adults need toys too.

A Fall That Has Come Too Early

Even before the official summer starts
In this steaming hot weather
It wouldn’t be a bad idea
To take a pre-summer nap.

When a lonely fallen leaf
Comes riding on a lukewarm wind and
Wakes you up,
If am nowhere in sight,

Please believe that
Just like a fallen leaf that makes you awake
I am on the long road alone,
Carrying lonesome autumn on my back and
Taking clammy autumn rain.
Road to the truth would be solitary,
Wouldn’t it?

Then you can go back to Jesus.
Mary Magdalene’s place would be next to Him.

This autumn already has found its place in my heart.