Skin of the Earth
In the plane
I prefer window seat
and nestle in one square foot
of comfort.
I always
close my eyes
before taking off.
I like to
wake up confronting
untouched nature
to feel as if I am lost.
The snow covered
Sierra Nevada,
its peaks and valleys
and pristine lakes
can seduce Narcissus
or Li Bai who chased
the reflection of the moon.
The skin of the earth,
with its veins
and scars from Cain
is marred by
farming and digging.
The mysterious earth
that came into existence
after the Big Bang
has been aching.
In the plane
from San Francisco
to Newark,
the sky was clear.
When a sheet cake of clouds
laid down like a carpet,
the gradation of blue
turned into
a gradation of orange.
Even the cold air
in the dark city
felt warm.
I am a dust particle
in the universe but
let me be awake and aware
to the changing landscape
because I am the earth
and my body is yours.
February 2018
Honolulu
The Long Chair
Your mother carried you on her back
against the flood line rising up to her neck
submerged in water
you thought you were back in your mother’s womb
a new born baby with month long diarrhea
you could have died but you didn’t
Your parents sent you away
when you were two years old
down south and five hours away
to your grandmother
soon you forgot your parents
or perhaps you never knew them
A man who left for another woman
never returned to your grandmother
a poor lady was smoking cheap cigarettes all day
her eyes fixated outside but daydreaming
days go by and no one spoke a word
silence was the language
Your teeth got all rotten from eating sweets
from your grandmother’s candy store
she gave you the precious white rice
while she made do with mixed grain rice
never revealing how she cooked
two types of rice in the same pot
You were probably five
when you first learned how to write numbers
you would write all day from 1 to 100—
the only thing you knew before entering elementary school
You were standing on a hilltop by yourself
when you heard church bells for the first time
loneness and longing stirred within
they never left you ever since
One day your grandmother took you to a portrait studio
paying beyond her means
the photographer put you on a long chair
you were holding your hands tightly together
that night you dreamt to be on a stage
and you had to learn how to bow to the audience
When you turned six, strangers came—
your parents and a sister
you were glad when they left
but your father returned one day
to take you away
or take you back.
April 2017
Honolulu
My Walden
People who cannot let go
of the pond swim across
its face of white, blue, green and red,
even in November.
At the bottom are floating spirits
of foliage, consoling each other.
Fishes soar up, splashing in between ripples
of water with boundless undulation.
I drove four hours from New York City,
after zigzagging through standstill
traffic and jaywalkers; I could not
wait to be back in Walden.
On a slope, I find a place
under the pine trees and lie down.
Visitors arrive and snap a photo.
What do they really see?
The pond is a large mirror
doubling the land and sky,
shoreline as the centerfold
of a decalcomania.
I pick up a pebble resembling my wisdom
tooth and walk along the sand shore.
After birches and pines, berries and oaks,
I arrive at Thoreau’s cabin site;
there I remember our house in South Korea—
where my father envisioned an utopia for his family
with trees, grasses, and bountiful flowers.
We drank spring water coming from a fissure of a rock.
Standing among Thoreau’s white pines,
I yearn to hear sounds of birds;
I search for unknown path;
I long for the first sunrise of the spring—
playing a flute on a boat
making notes of nature’s small gestures,
as the last glacier melts away
in a heartbeat of a fallen tree.
July 2017
Honolulu
In the plane
I prefer window seat
and nestle in one square foot
of comfort.
I always
close my eyes
before taking off.
I like to
wake up confronting
untouched nature
to feel as if I am lost.
The snow covered
Sierra Nevada,
its peaks and valleys
and pristine lakes
can seduce Narcissus
or Li Bai who chased
the reflection of the moon.
The skin of the earth,
with its veins
and scars from Cain
is marred by
farming and digging.
The mysterious earth
that came into existence
after the Big Bang
has been aching.
In the plane
from San Francisco
to Newark,
the sky was clear.
When a sheet cake of clouds
laid down like a carpet,
the gradation of blue
turned into
a gradation of orange.
Even the cold air
in the dark city
felt warm.
I am a dust particle
in the universe but
let me be awake and aware
to the changing landscape
because I am the earth
and my body is yours.
February 2018
Honolulu
The Long Chair
Your mother carried you on her back
against the flood line rising up to her neck
submerged in water
you thought you were back in your mother’s womb
a new born baby with month long diarrhea
you could have died but you didn’t
Your parents sent you away
when you were two years old
down south and five hours away
to your grandmother
soon you forgot your parents
or perhaps you never knew them
A man who left for another woman
never returned to your grandmother
a poor lady was smoking cheap cigarettes all day
her eyes fixated outside but daydreaming
days go by and no one spoke a word
silence was the language
Your teeth got all rotten from eating sweets
from your grandmother’s candy store
she gave you the precious white rice
while she made do with mixed grain rice
never revealing how she cooked
two types of rice in the same pot
You were probably five
when you first learned how to write numbers
you would write all day from 1 to 100—
the only thing you knew before entering elementary school
You were standing on a hilltop by yourself
when you heard church bells for the first time
loneness and longing stirred within
they never left you ever since
One day your grandmother took you to a portrait studio
paying beyond her means
the photographer put you on a long chair
you were holding your hands tightly together
that night you dreamt to be on a stage
and you had to learn how to bow to the audience
When you turned six, strangers came—
your parents and a sister
you were glad when they left
but your father returned one day
to take you away
or take you back.
April 2017
Honolulu
My Walden
People who cannot let go
of the pond swim across
its face of white, blue, green and red,
even in November.
At the bottom are floating spirits
of foliage, consoling each other.
Fishes soar up, splashing in between ripples
of water with boundless undulation.
I drove four hours from New York City,
after zigzagging through standstill
traffic and jaywalkers; I could not
wait to be back in Walden.
On a slope, I find a place
under the pine trees and lie down.
Visitors arrive and snap a photo.
What do they really see?
The pond is a large mirror
doubling the land and sky,
shoreline as the centerfold
of a decalcomania.
I pick up a pebble resembling my wisdom
tooth and walk along the sand shore.
After birches and pines, berries and oaks,
I arrive at Thoreau’s cabin site;
there I remember our house in South Korea—
where my father envisioned an utopia for his family
with trees, grasses, and bountiful flowers.
We drank spring water coming from a fissure of a rock.
Standing among Thoreau’s white pines,
I yearn to hear sounds of birds;
I search for unknown path;
I long for the first sunrise of the spring—
playing a flute on a boat
making notes of nature’s small gestures,
as the last glacier melts away
in a heartbeat of a fallen tree.
July 2017
Honolulu