Waiting for the rice

The rice bowl always comes last
       at the table of the Dear Leader
Pour
     the
        drinks and
Serve the meat,
     but the rice is held till last.

The message is blatant and yet subtle:
                 Know your place like you
                 know your hunger,
   Freedom   lies   beyond   your   grasp.

A dusty child sweeps the dusty stone path
and the poor parent weeps
                               silently before the bronze statue and throne
Fear chokes their souls into submission.

Fed lies from their youth that bloat their stomachs -
       fanciful tales of paradise
Still, they sit at the Dear Leader's table,
waiting for the rice.

For more than 3 years...

She turned around and smiled, momentarily 시선을 맞았다.
 

눈빛이 가물가물하고 서로 사이에 뭔가 알려진 듯 쳐다보다가 수줍게 낯을 돌렸다.

The remnants of her 'smile shine' waft through the air, gently landing on me in waves.
 

Each crest rising and breaking on the shores of my heart.

Part III

Her life changed when he looked her in the eyes. For a year they spent their afternoons talking over their laptop screens and walking to classes shoulder to shoulder, the backs of their hands occasionally grazing. They were friends. She saw the future in his eyes and her goodness captured the imagination of his heart. Their friendship turned into love and their dreams turned into plans. Their love was everything a poet writes of and everything a ballad sings of. He was a man of patriotism, a believer that the United States was destined to be the ambassador of freedom to the heathen world. In part, it was his passion that had captured the imagination of her young heart. He loved her like he loved his country, both were infallible in nature and he felt that both were deserved privileges. His love of country brought him to enlist for a 3 year tour in the Middle East. His love for her brought him to ask her for a promise.

I love you. We were meant for this Chantelle. Promise me that you'll always love me and no other.

Brad, my heart...

She wiped a tear from her eye, forcing a smile.

I see in you all my happiness, I just want to be with you... But if you have to go...

She lept forward into his arms, holding him with all of her emotion. They held each other, she softly sobbing over her coming 3 year loneliness, he feeling only the fringes of Old Glory wrapped about him singing its gratitude for his coming service. Brad's only thoughts of their future centering around her being the one to welcome him home, showering him in honor.

And so Chantelle and Brad said their goodbyes, both anticipating the coming days and weeks and years. Brad anticipating the joy and satisfaction of serving that which he loved most in her uniform and with her weapon. Chantelle's anticipation was that of serving the man she loved by waiting for his return, wearing the promise of the remnant of his kiss on her cheek.

Her first love got into a car and rode away. Chantelle fought back tears while she walked back to her apartment. She went straight to her bed, grabbed a pillow, and bawled. The loneliness swelling into her throat, choking her sobs. Never had she experienced such severe pain. She physically hurt. Her body ached with loss. Her only love had been amputated and now she felt the hollow, missing limb. As excruciating as was her pain, was her love enduring.

No longer you

The Aftermath

I have a tear to shed for every piece of my broken heart

My heart, once full of love and joy, overflowing has burst in pain

My wish is to be with her and to let the tears wash away their stain.

There is no peace for a heart that aches, only the time it takes to heal

The yearning to have a whole heart once again and the touch of love to feel.

My heart aches to be with her and to hold her hand in mine, to feel the touch of her love and the warmth of her smile on my face again.

After the aftermath
I no longer love you
My memory is vivid of the feelings I once had
I long to be with the you of then, to have it all back again
I wish for the day your absence is filled
But I no longer love you.
I love your memory - you, of my past.
I haven't let go of her, nor will I.
But you are not my love
We are not together and I hold only a dream.

Victimized

I was the victim of a random act of violence when I was in the fourth grade. I remember it clearly; it was field day and I was excited to run in the three-legged race. I was standing with my friend discussing the qualities of laffy-taffy that made it superior to M & M's. It was a hot day in northern Alabama. Suddenly I felt a thump on my head and saw a kid running in the opposite direction. At first I thought it was a joke, perhaps someone I knew, perhaps an impromptu game of freeze-tag. I didn't recognize the boy, or at least the back of him, as he ran off. Then my friend told me, he hadn't just hit me in the back of the head. No, there was something in my hair. I reached back to feel the sticky blob which we quickly identified as none other than bubble gum! Immediately uncharitable thoughts for my attacker filled my fourth-grade mind. I wanted to chase him and somehow exact my revenge but he was long gone. Instead we told the nearest teacher of the incident and tried to find a way to extract the gum from my hair. Unfortunately all of our efforts were unsuccessful. When I got home that day I showed my mom. By this time humiliation had overcome me. I had been tagged the kid that got gummed at field day. My mom tried various means of bubble gum extraction including peanut butter, ice and other genius concoctions; nothing was working. She finally resorted to a comb and some scissors. She did her best not to leave me looking like I had a brush-in with a weed-wacker, which meant she had to use more comb than scissors. It was very painful and I cried. It hurt my mother to have to inflict the pain on me, probably more than it was hurting me. Nothing was done at school to catch the perpetrator. There was nothing much my friend and I could do to persuade the teacher to look into it much further. When my mother heard of this she took matters into her own hands. I heard her later telling my dad about how she marched into the Assistant Principle's office, demanding punishment while tearfully describing the scene in our bathroom at home where we both cried trying to get the gum out of my hair. The following day the assistant principle came into my classroom and asked me to come with her. I got my buddy to come along too since he had a better look at my attacker. We scowered all the other fourth grade classes to no avail. Then we moved to the fifth grade. After searching thoroughly and not finding him we decided to look one more time at each class. My friend and I examined the line-ups again and this time around I thought I spotted him. I couldn't be sure though. My friend however looked at the delinquent and affirmed that he was the culprit. Satisfied that we had the right student, the Assistant Principle took him into custody for punishment. I was never 100% certain that we had nabbed the right kid, but I believed my friend and let justice work its course.
Two years later mid-way through my 6th grade year we were preparing to go on a field-trip. All the students were very excited! A classmate of mine seemed particularly excited. He told me that this was the first time he would be able to go to this particular museum. The last time his class, in 5th grade, had planned to go he wasn't allowed to go for disciplinary reasons. That was two years ago because he had to repeat the 6th grade. He then told me, as though I already knew, that he couldn't go because he had stuck gum in my hair and that was the punishment. I had no idea it was the same boy that I was now friends with who had been my attacker! I was shocked, yet my previous uncertainty about whether we had targeted the right boy or not was now confirmed, by his own admittance.

The first thing she does

I adored her from a distance, safely, for the majority of my thoughts and dreams.

I hoped for the day when her smile would turn my way, when a soft gesture would imply she yearned for me too. Being near her and yet invisible is burdensome, nearly unbearable. I know how her cheeks curl leaving dimples when sees a dear friend. The gentle forming crows feet are pronounced as she embraces those she hasn't seen for a while. The first thing she does when she stands up is to slide her hands down her stomach and sides ironing out the wrinkles. She'll tuck the hair behind her ears, exposing a profile that begs her lover's kiss.

I finally shed my fears, abandoning my only safety net. As long as my love for her remained inside of me, she could never reject it. A scornful stuttering, "an, and what did you say your name was?" should never depart her lips. Her kindness temporarily stunned by this stranger stretching out an introduction in strained, disconnected phrases. Wanting so badly for that smile to return. Never able to communicate that she is the envy of every lakeside sunset, where reflection brings the glory of the sun, visible to both the heavens and earth. Yet her thoughts must be churning, not yet sure why she must endure this stammering. His hands uncertain whether they should hide in his pockets or exclaim in baritone unison, "I want to feel the texture of your soul!"

In a valiant attempt I've succeeded in scaring her; no, double that r, she will truly be scarred from this encounter. And what have I gained but an assurance that for some, love is an idea they hope to ponder and to others it is the fabric draped around the world.

In my defeat I turn away and sob a final thought: if her eyes could see my heart and feel the rush of love that courses through my veins for her. If she could hear the song I sing and the chorus that is her name. If I could mute the world and fill it poetry about her.

Then the touch, it could have healed a leper. My shoulder went from sagging forward to a battering ram. A shock wave of vitality ran through my spine. The bells on heaven's gates chimed clear. My name ran sweetly through the air. I turned in fear and gripped by doubt, this must be some mistake. The melody that sang my name became a warm embrace. Suddenly the thoughts and dreams that lay dormant in my heart were revived there on the spot. Her heart had yearned and plead for attention from one who felt the same. Indeed her dreams included me, though she had concealed them all along.

Governing Bodies

Sometimes my stomach enslaves my free will. Submission is survival. Sometimes my heart convinces me what my mind won't understand. However, my mind has had occasion to veto, too. The constitution of my governing bodies is simple. What I want is determined by?

A Letter to the Editor of Life

I used to fall asleep at night smiling.

I could've never see this coming as a kid.

I'm always hoping.

Sometimes life is what is happening right now,

Other times its what will happen next,

Sometimes its what isn't happening anymore,

Still other times its a swirling mist of the three.

I want to know how I make the decisions that I do. Good or Bad. In Other Words, How?

How can I be so inconsistent in my attempts to be consistent?

How do you not know what's good for you?

What's the deal with all these other people? I mean, is there some deal they got that I was never made aware where they don't have to think or be human?

I will always be human. Until I die?

The stars will always be a mystery no matter what you think.

I still fall asleep, just sometimes I fall asleep remembering that I used to fall asleep smiling. Sometimes that makes me smile, sometimes I oppose smiling.

Will we ever figure out this whole time thing?

Will I ever figure out why I can change my mind like a channel on TV?