Sixth Grade
We didn’t like each other,
but Lynn’s mother had died,
and my father had died.
Posts Tagged "poem"
Two Poems for Valentine’s Day
If you like these, I invite you to browse around my writing section. I’ve got numerous poems and one nonfiction essay (entitled
Felix + Dzintra + Queensrÿche) – all of the shared under a Creative Commons license.
Age
As some people age
they kinden.
The apertures
of their eyes widen.
First Snow Project
Once every winter, I like posting up this First Snow Project. Looking to Flickr for keywords like snow, snowflake, etc., images are displayed that match up with me reading a poem I wrote.
The Fourth Wise Man
The fourth wise man
disliked travel. If
you walk, there’s the
gravel. If you ride,
there’s the camel’s attitude.
Insomnia
You are beautiful
while you sleep. I’m exhausted
by the time you wake.
Father on Glass Wings
Death calls from Colorado spring. The phone
tells me you jumped: angel with dizzy stone
arms, floating on glass wings. But you don’t land.
Childhood. We’re selling watch straps, store to store,
sharing a shabby Greystone room.
Train Car, 6 AM
by Felix Jung Half of us, waking to dawn. The other half, half- asleep, halfway home.
Little Deaths
Despite the miles along the way
of sin, confession, sin again,
we die a little. Every day
Ample Make This Bed
Ample make this Bed —
Make this Bed with Awe —
One Fiction
Every story can be broken down
into elements of timing and space:
man goes on a trip, man comes to town.
Instructions for a Tibetan Air Burial
by Felix Jung The vultures, about 50 of them altogether, ambled slowly up the hill and took to the air with evident difficulty, overfed as they are from this daily ritual. —New York Times, 7.3.99 What you see in front of you is only a body. Take your knife and begin with the feet, the toes. Oranges never cry when…
My Grandmother, the Poet
>Grandma and I were sitting in the airplane on-route to Cabo. She looked out the window and inspiration came to her. She asked for pen and paper and wrote this poem in a matter of minutes.
Obol
Our family stands on a hill high above
Los Angeles, holding stacks of paper
in our hands, thick Chinese characters
scrawled in ink. Yut Cheen, one thousand,
the smallest sits at the top. Each bill
is bigger than the last, ten thousand, one
hundred thousand, the sum so large
it makes me dizzy trying to count.
The Death of Marilyn Monroe
The ambulance men touched her cold
body, lifted it, heavy as iron,
onto the stretcher, tried to close the
mouth, closed the eyes, tied the
arms to the sides, moved a caught
strand of hair, as if it mattered,