More TO COME ✍ ✍ TRACE

This is a dream, a dream about a Bird, and a man. I may not make sense to some, yet it may certainly make sense to others. For me, It is a dream of a child hood tragedy that I've never spoken about it. It is too abstract to reader to know what the tragedy was; that is the way I want to keep it. I named it: "TRACE". It is written on 2-3-2001.

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"A door with small windows

Is between me and the wind.

The glasses are sheeted with dust.

The obscure wind has a howling tonight!

Though I can't hear it;

As hard as I tried to listen to its moan!

Dust assembles on glasses,

More and more in front of my eyes.

I arise from my hallucination,

When I see a man is dead,

When I see I was making love

To a bird high in fly.

To see it was wind,

The howling wind which put me to sleep;

Then I close my eyes and see,

They're carrying the man

Out of his home.

he is wearing his glasses;

His full black hair is shinning;

He is wrapped in a white sheet.

They put him in a box;

But the bird insist on making love;

And I want to follow the trace

of what that man has left behind!"

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People say I write depressing poetry; I say happy poems are not poems; they are vignette. I write poems. They are sad, but they are poems. This one is published and I've gotten the best poem of the year award for it...

MORE TO COME ✍ ✍ SUN OF TOMORROW

Is Tomorrow better than today? Has loveliness completely disappeared? Where is the love? Is it only want, need? "I want this; I need that; You must do this for me!" What happened to hope? Where did it go? What happened to togetherness? Where is it? There was a day that they all existed...

On 6- 28- 99 I wrote "SUN OF TOMORROW". You judge it for yourself.

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"The color of dusk wraps around sun.

A lonely tree in the vast lawn,

Craves water, and finds none.

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From the gloomy sky, flees light

To the far horizon with spite.

Rain of light pours of red tulip of night.

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The gray night opens its wing

To carry life on its ring.

Wild winds in darkness run and swing.

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To a silent humming, cities retire.

On the roof of night, stars inspire.

The wine of moon light, I desire.

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It's midnight, and a cloud in vast sky

Abuses the moon with its threat and sigh;

And the old crow mock beautiful butterfly.

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In the bosom of this night, I get a surprise.

The glow of your eyes becomes a prize;

Like Sun of tomorrow that I never despise."

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More TO COME ✍✍ I FOUND MY WAY

Visiting Rome, Italy, on Christmas of 1999, and the new year of 2000, my husband and I went to the Vatican, as many others times that we had done so. But this time something happened. Standing in St. Pittsburgh Square and looking at all the lights and decoration for Christmas, I looked at the sky; to my amazement, suddenly a vision came to me. I did not know the meaning of it, or the purpose of it. I thought my eyes were playing games with me. I blinked a few times, Closed my eyes and opened it; and looked again at the sky. It was a sunny day; around noon. The sun rays on that warm day for a cold season were dour; nevertheless I saw the same vision. This REVELATION came to me a few more times.

Nine months later, I was attending RCIA (the classes for becoming a Catholic). Why did it take nine months? I was puzzled with my vision (Revelation). I had to think about it and feel it for a long time. I did not say anything to anyone, even Valentine, my husband, all those NINE MONTHS. However I was talking to Father Don almost every day either on the phone or visiting him. I came home from work one day, nine months later, and the first thing I told my husband was: "I'm becoming a catholic!" His response was: "What!?"

I wrote "I FOUND MY WAY" on 7-24- 2001, which portrays my my vision and revelation and my choosing CHRISTIANITY.

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The beautiful eagles, who flew,

Over my head slow;

And sank into puffy cloud

With disturbed thoughts, but loud;

Their sound like a lance,

Travels into horizon trance.

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They all know

That I saw the garden glow.

From my cold, stern abyss.

They saw me pluck apples with bliss.

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Everyone is afraid,

But I'm joined with no dread

To water, sky, and light.

And I am not afraid of any plight.

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The gossip is not about my look;

Or reading an old, holy book.

The gossip is about my hair;

And the flowers flourishing from my air.

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The color of my skin, nude;

My feeling have different mood.

I ask the jungle dark,

The wild sea of indifference and lark,

The pearls inside the seashell,

The young eagles, who turn.

What do I need to learn?

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They all know,

The dream of eagles have no woe.

In the garden I find the grace;

In the sky, eyes of flowers, and embrace.

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The gossip is not of dark.

It is of day and spark;

And of open window, fresh air;

And of vain things burn by fire's flair;

And of pregnant earth;

And of completion, pride, and birth;

And of my discovering the light

Into Christianity with delight!

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More TO COME ✍ ✎ HARSH BLOW

We Come; we go; we thrive; we fail; we fall in love; we fall out of love; we stay; we leave; but one thing always stay the same: No one stays forever. Youth goes, then they call you middle age, as if it is something heavenly! They call: "You're at the top of the hill." From there it is all downward.

I wrote "HARSH BLOW" with that concept in mind on 1-16-11.

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"Night and the silent fiction,

Full and gloomy with abstraction;

Miles of sky and forever alive;

Somber and doleful, always thrive!

The growing man, the aging woman,

The weary lives, minds full of plan.

Big, empty homes, roads covered with frost;

Sunset that fades, dawn we can't trust.

Sky so eternal, beautiful, yet full of offense!

Showing aging woman nothing but suspense.

Youth had broken away, like a wild thing!

Once it had bloomed like a first flower of spring!

The wasteful youth, its harsh blow;

Or wild desires, colored like rainbow!

Now the old woman hums, hums with fright;

With a closed mouth, in the dusk of night."

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Neither this is the first nor the last that One feels "WHERE DID IT GO". Have you ever had something so dear to you, like a baby, who hangs on to her pacifier, or a toy, or anything until she stops crying and falls asleep. It's hard for the baby to let go of them; and you can't replace them; she'll know. This is not about me, this is about some irreplaceable people in my life when you see their photos only, like Seeing the photos of mom and dad, and their aging, their becoming frail a little more everyday, specially when you just see pictures, and nothing else. You hear their voices, you notice the change a little more every week, as you notice your own change...

MORE TO COME ✍ ✎ NATURALIST

I Wrote this poem in a stormy day of Dallas. There is a saying that Texas weather changes with a blink of an eye. That day was a sunny, warm winter day. I walked outside with a tee shirt; enjoyed the caress of breeze on my face. Suddenly a dark, almost black, huge cloud came from nowhere and I witnessed one among others of worst stormy day of Dallas. It was 1- 3- 96.

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"Immense wind whips every tree;

Sweeps back and forth the torrents of rain.

Branches crash down in the dark bosom of entity.

Dazzling power of slashing blast howls in plain.

Shimmering rays have already disappeared with grief;

Where the sky at the end smiles.

Nothingness of storm deprive quintessence like a thief;

The iridescent rain pours in all isles.

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And here we share a profound woe;

A provocative presence no one can bear.

And here we deliver a magic, a show;

For being human with a sympathizing tear.

And the divine storm on the bumpy roads,

Shrinks to startle animated course.

And human carries a bundle of many loads,

A solemnity to lull the roaring force."

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This was not the first, nor it be the last that I saw Texas weather goes completely crazy. So much damage, so many broken trees at the top of the cars or house, including my own.

More TO COME ✍ ✎ RETURN TO LOVE

I wrote this poem on 6- 20- 1998. It was one of those days I felt so nostalgic, so lonely. A day that I wanted to see people, not any people but my people. I sat and imagined that day:

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"One day I will return,

I will bring with me a message.

I will pour lights in veins.

I will talk loudly.

I will fill the bamboo baskets with orange, the red orange of sun.

I will return.

I will give a red rose to the peddler.

I will tell the blind man about beauty.

I will roam the alleys.

There is no alleys in the land of free!

And I will scream: 'Dew on green leaves!'

A passerby will say: 'The truth is in a dark night!'

I will show him the sky, the stars, the blue moon.

I will cut the insult from lips.

I will destroy all the walls.

To the thieves I will say: 'My belongings are only my smile!'

I will tear the cloud.

I will tie the eyes with sun, hearts with love, shadows with water, trees with wind,

I will tie the dream of a child with a humming.

I will water the flowers.

I will return.

I will give friends the green grass of caresses!

I will return to plant a whipping willow on each wall's shadow.

I will sing a poem beneath each window.

I will ask people to make up.

I will show them new friends.

I will return.

I will walk.

I will inhale light.

I will exhale darkness.

One day I will return.

I will return to love..."

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When I wrote this poem, its effect stopped me of writing for a while. Then suddenly I realized this is something everyone should read. I entered a contest. Not only I had it published, I won the contest.

MORE TO COME ✍ ✎ OH, IF WE WERE CHILDREN

What is the difference between being a child or an adult? We do wish sometimes that we could go back and become children again. We think by doing that we would do things differently. But no one knows. This subject was what inspired me to write this poem, "OH, IF WE WERE CHILDREN". I wrote this poem on 12- 20- 2010.

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"When we were children, we had big hearts;

Now that we're grown, our hearts are shrinking and will become to nothing.

What if our hearts stayed as big as when we were children!

What if we were still children, so people could read words in our eyes!

What if we didn't need speaking to talk!

What if only our eyes could Speak!

What if our hearts were painted on our face!

But now, no one can hear us even if we scream!

So we must choose silence when we grow up.

Look at this world!

When we were children, rain always poured from sky!

Now that we're grown, rain pours from our eyes!

When we were children, people noticed our rainy faces!

Now that we're grown, no one can see our sobbing.

When we were children, we were not ashamed to cry!

Now that we're grown, we cry in solitude!

When we were children, no one could break our hearts!

And if they did, it was just for a little while!

Now that we're grown, our hearts break and stay broken.

When we were children, we stretched our arms to measure our love!

Now that we're grown, our love is little, or too big, or nothing in between!

When we were children, judgement was not in our horizon!

Now that we're grown, our judgement blocks our love!

What if we still can stretch our arms wide to measure our love!

When we were children, our fights were short and not lasting!

Now that we're grown, our fights last our all lives!

When we were children, our desires were small, our wants were little!

Now that we're grown, our smallest desires are our biggest wants!

When we were children, adults listened to our small pains!

Now that we're grown, our pains are large and plenty and nobody listens!

When we were children, we were children!

Now that we're grown, we're not grown, and we're not children!"

I look at the life of my grandchildren or your children and then at the life of adults all around us! I call your children or my grandchildren celebrities. Us, adult, can only wish to go back and live it again; and even if our wishes come through, it wouldn't be the same! Why? Because when we were children, our toys were hand made by our mothers, our schools didn't have computers; our teachers only had blackboard and chalk; we had not heard of I this and I that; we didn't know anything about social media, PJ parties; we (specially girls ) were not allowed to do make up, to stay up late, to remove unwanted hair from our face and our eyebrows, to drive at age fifteen; but we could read the greatest work of literature, we could write, we knew our history and math, we learned a second language, and . . .