My law-daughter prays every night in the room downstairs. She confesses me, sometimes she sees a lady in a nightgown in the stairway watches her before vanishing. To help her not to fear, I tell her true, ‘She’s me. One night, on my way to the bathroom, I watched you kneeled, bowed, and prayed.’ ‘She’s a ghost or Jin, ma,’ she says. ‘There’s no ghost,’ I tell her. ‘Your sixth sense lets you see me on the step that night.’ ‘I don’t believe that, ma.’ ‘Okay. She’s your Jin. Don’t fear.’ ‘I don’t.’ One night, heading to the bathroom downstairs, I saw a woman on the step slowly vanishing into the stream of light. Or, did she? She might be merely a manifestation of my sleepy psych, like the ghostly woman on the step was the echo of me?
* Jin, Gene in English, is a being whom Muslims believe as an invisible form. I would appreciate your opinion on the poem above.
It creeps up on me as the judge grills.
I search in my heart for the right answer,
for having failed as a good daughter.
Being so far away, seeing her sporadically,
the pink-flowered Hanbok she made
for me for the first day of my kindergarten,
the warmth of her hand that held mine,
in the deep ocean of memory,
I weep, wishing I could go back and
give her a hug.
What was born of the old selfishness?
Nothing, not a thing, except, gaining
some insight to see beyond ordinary.
This dragon fire had not melt even
a little sliver of the ice of the world pain,
merely flying ’round, singing the song
like a bird heard by few.
Let the salt water brim the eyes,
listening to her soothing voice,
He settled on the branch called home, his little feathers flirt, beguiled by the passing wind, dormant selfishness, understanding absent. Wife’s feminine fit would be clashed with his teeth, clutching his off spring, he’d fly to his dad’s. After many days, would return home, irrational act, defeated by his intelligence, still, he blames the law-mother for lack of daughter-and-mother talk–his ignorance of the fact that they text message often. “Do your part,” she tells the couple. “No one is fault-proof. Say sorry and work it out.” In a fit he vanishes into the night. In the wee-hour, he turns into an owl and returns to the usual tree. Her heart beats normal for now, hopes he stays as the new one.
Mountain creatures, little and big, settle down In the home of the summer-lady, After the cease of the spring fanfare Of the loud creek and heaving earth. Her smorgasbord richer and stronger in taste Than the season before. Young ferns’ curls loosen to reach the stars, To learn the unknown, Skinny legs of the offspring got stronger, Mamas and the youngsters roam the hills and valleys For the berries and whatnot, The moon guides the strayed fawn, Till she smells the doe. Squirrels and chipmunks eye on the people picnic Under the pine trees. They welcome the popcorns Left behind but scurry away from The dirty napkins and empty cans, And the like. Irate wind kicks them ‘round, rages at the sloppiness, At the disrespect for the rec center of The Mother’s Home. Waterfall guffaws at the frolicking trout below, Hawks cry above the tree-tops, sensing the Stealthy autumn beckons from the distant mountain, Warns the hikers for the elfish snowfall On the high mountain, then they Shrug it off, dance to the tree-wind-song.
* This poem first appeared in The Avocet, Summer 2020.
* It has been over two weeks since my husband and I returned from our trip, and we are fine, which means we didn’t catch coronavirus. I thank my god!
Honeyed Words By GregoryTullock—email@example.com
Nectar Like liquified sunshine Golden, pure, sweet Gathered by the Industrious tongue Of the honeybee Transformed through Apian alchemy And received by The appreciative tongue Of mine own Tupelo Sourwood Basswood Clover Honeyed words Spoken straight to my tongue Whispered to my soul
Deep inside ourselves By Charles Portolano – Fountain Hills, AZ – firstname.lastname@example.org
Deep in the sea, oh, deep in the sea where darkness rules the warming waters are percolating causing great grief, changing migration patterns, killing our coral reefs.
High in the Alps, the Andres, high in the Himalayas, and on both of the Poles the warming snow flows down their crying faces of the once frozen ice, now escaping into the warming seas.
Rising sea levels, oh, rising sea levels now leaves so many homeless as she takes back her land, where we all came from in the beginning of our existence with our first breath of oxygen.
Breathing in deep is a struggle, hurts each breath taken for the young, the old, the sick, all feel the burn in the back of their always sore throats, the endless coughing, just trying to catch their next breath.
Deep in the back of our minds where we keep secrets, we know the end will be coming for our refusing to choose a new way to live sharing fairly all the resources Mother has to give to all of her children…
* It is free to download The Weekly Avocet. This will hide after a week.