Tuesday, July 31, 2012

A Flight at Night


The right-handed writer
Likes to write
The right time
To hike for the ripe
Fruits from the Wrights.
But the Wrights
Don’t like the right-handed writer
And the hikers.
The Wrights took a flight at night
With the ripe fruits.


Good


If I had been good,
If I had not done the breach,
Be relaxed I would;
Confidently moving on,
Knowing nothing would go wrong.


Monday, July 30, 2012

Value Beyond the Cost


Ever been to the nomadic life?
The nights are more alive than ever,
For you don’t know where to spend the night.
The rich people will help you never.
A lonely life that gets a lot less;
Every second, it turns into mess.

The unpleasant places are for you,
For they wouldn’t give anything else.
You’ll be lit by the sun, or the moon.
You’ll learn to sleep where animals dwell.
Simply waiting for the storm to stop.
You’ve been awake, so you won’t wake up.

People like you know what matters most.
You’ll see the value beyond the cost.
It makes you much better than the host.


Steep Forests


There is a small hill in the valley.
Steep forests with tall trees near the paths.
Butterflies flutter near the lily.
This is where monks pray and artists cast.
Tiny homes stand on the western side.
The eastern side is where monks reside.

It turns into shadows in the night.
Home lights behind leaves look like glitters.
Bats go out, and who knows what else flies?
Stars watch over them like cute critters.
In the morning, the rare birds will rise.
The sun will turn into gold; surprise.

There is a small hill in the valley.
Transparent in the blue sky; you’ll see,
Or you can’t; I just imagined it.


Sunday, July 29, 2012

The Great Musician


I don’t know what happened; it was quick.
Now, writing in the rain, feeling lost,
Trying to go on, but being weak.
If I don’t stop it, it’d be worst.

The beautiful voice that sounds so good.
Strumming the guitar with skilled fingers,
Or filling the air with piano tunes;
Singing songs that make me feel better.

Compose sweet tunes, and make me listen.
Sing lines; distract me from this nightmare.
Musical talent makes dreams; you can.
Play the high notes and set the chords free.

The great musician that you can be
Who captivates sad people like me.


Mysterious


The real world is like a forest;
Dark, mysterious, and confusing.
Trees keep us from looking ahead.
People get lost, or live searching.
Trees of nature block all around
As we feel dry leaves on the ground.

Maybe there’s a city beyond;
Blue skies, level ground, and nice cars.
We will reach such a diamond,
Unless we don’t brave these cougars.
Some people break to the forest;
Some live life avoiding this mess.


Saturday, July 28, 2012

Dice 1997


Shaped like a hut; had huge windows.
Fresh winds always blew through the house.
Life was relaxed; people were slow.
Not a loud speaker to announce.
The kids were nice, and I had friends.
We tried to climb walls when we can.

There were more than a dozen friends.
Girly ones, boyish ones; noisy.
Woke up earlier than parents.
Games were cut during time to eat,
And we resumed running so quick
Until night to play hide and seek.

We loved bubbles, race cars, and dice.
We loved clips shaped like butterflies.
We liked to share, and we were nice.


The First Horizon


Flashy skyscrapers above.
New, sleek Chevrolet below.
Did you smell the smoke as you drove?
Holding on the handrail; cold.
We are fast in the city.
Leave conventional beauty.
                             
Let’s see the first horizon.
Admire the farms and the cows.
I smell flowers, grass, and corn.
Next night, catch fireflies that glow.
We are now in the country.
I’ll keep driving to be free.

The fresh winds blow on my face.
I’ll see the end of the way.
I won’t stop going away.


Precious, Little Parcels


Never ever forget to dream,
For dreams fuel life to be free.

Look at the house; it’s a castle.
There’s a really nice, walled bedroom.
Beside precious, little parcels.
A well-lit kitchen near the broom.

Without dreams, it’s just a prison.
Trash that’s dusty and depressing.
A hole in the wall called “window.”
It’s just a sink, dull and graying.

Dreams don’t only make it better;
They also fix literally.
We have airplanes up in the air;
People used to dream of flying.

Never ever forget to dream,
For dreams fuel life to be free.


Clarion Write-a-Thon 2012