my pretty name
on your lips–
dawn birdsong
traversing
my poem on the screen–
a cockroach!
dawnlight–
two in the care home
yelling together
the poem’s ending
also its beginning–
enso circle
living the dream–
the suburban house cat
squinting
daydreaming
in an attic room–
think outside the box
the bird
who flew in last night
dead by the coke machine
a pink tree
that's not sakura–
only pinker
Bio Note: I write free verses, rhyming poems, and Japanese short form poetry, some of which saw the light of day in journals like Alien Buddha Zine, Spillwords, and Cajun Mutt Press, Fevers of the Mind Press. I am also a Jeopardy fan.
Starfish and Coffee
(inspired by Prince's Starfish and Coffee)
I wake up to coffee I make,
Nestle instant with green tea,
powdered creamer,
and a dash of Sweet and Low.
It tastes crappy,
but I love the feeling it brings.
I cannot afford Starbucks,
miss the whipped cream,
the caramel swirls.
Don't like maple syrup and jam,
or ham, or tangerine,
but orange marmalade with butter,
on crusty biscuits from KFC.
My mother clothed me
in mildewed sweaters.
I wouldn't be surprised,
if she fed me starfish for breakfast.
She'd pack it in a grimy tin box,
for all my classmates to see,
just like the song goes.
Raspberry Parade: A Ghazal for Prince
On my way home from the cabaret,
I realize I've lost my beret.
The street is an endless parade,
raspberries on my float, not a beret.
Vagabonds crowd the sidewalks,
wrapped in colorful rags, but no beret.
I wear a red dress my mother bought,
with a crystal tiara, not a beret.
She passed away in 1994,
and the song isn't about me but a beret.
Bio Note: I write free verses, rhyming poems, and Japanese short form poetry, some of which saw the light of day in journals like Alien Buddha Zine, Spillwords, and Cajun Mutt Press, Fevers of the Mind Press. I am also a Jeopardy fan.
I know you love me, you say.
How are you so sure, I wonder.
I suppose I do,
as I love nothing else.
I don't love to write,
don't love bird songs,
the shards of sunlight
that spill through the blinds
all day.
So it could be true,
that I love you,
relatively speaking,
that compared to a dandelion,
a sparrow, a tree,
I like you a little more.
This small preference,
for the sight, the sound,
the scent of you,
accumulates daily, nightly,
hourly, monthly, yearly,
like drops of honey
add up to syrupy love,
which one tastes in one’s heart.
Ah, love,
you are sweeter than stardust,
shinier than dew.
Faded
Let me know if you still love me,
like I do you.
If you do I shall take liberty
to revisit our abandoned past,
continue our story where we left off.
I shall reserve an entire page
to store your ever-burning smile.
However, if you no longer love me,
also let me know.
I shall respectfully remove you
from my heart, my dreams,
like a picture in a frame.
I shall discard memories of us
like long expired roses
inside a vase.
I shall not flip back the pages,
but will write a brand new story
without you in it,
but a different hero.
I'm Not a Fair Weather Friend
I love you
not only when you're smiling
the sun kissing your dimpled cheeks
but when sorrow depresses your lips
and the moon clouds your countenance
I love you in gold and silk
but won't think less of you
if there are holes in your shirt
For it is not in sweetness
but in the salts of everyday life
that I'm here for you
Bio Note: I write free verses, rhyming poems, and Japanese short form poetry, some of which saw the light of day in journals like Alien Buddha Zine, Spillwords, and Cajun Mutt Press, Fevers of the Mind Press. I am also a Jeopardy fan.
Father's Day
Father, father
You peeled the smile
off of my face
and yellowed my soul
with talks
of your pain
your struggles
sugar coating everything
and letting the venom
seep in afterwards
The twenty dollars
you left on the ironing board
every other week
kept my mouth shut
Like bandages
they fell off
leaving my wounds
to bleed profusely
It is easy
to pretend not to know
to be cold like snow
But father, father
the men I meet
are a lot like you
They melt my morals
with the heat
of lovemaking
and I learned
to say "yes"
to go along
with their every whim
My pliant flesh
bears all the misery
you gave mother
I get crushed
damaged
then recover
only to begin
all over again
My Degree and Other Things You Don't Know About Me
I am…
a genie in a bottle
drifting from sea to shore
shrouded by a cloud
no folded resume enclosed
explains who I am
a cardboard face
like in those antidepressant ads
two circles for eyes
a curved line for a mouth
a stick of a neck to hold
an occupant
between scraps of memories
like a pressed rose in an old diary
the stamp of honor on my diploma
faded and forgotten
Bio Note: I write free verses, rhyming poems, and Japanese short form poetry, some of which saw the light of day in journals like Alien Buddha Zine, Spillwords, and Cajun Mutt Press, Fevers of the Mind Press. I am also a Jeopardy fan.
You weave a web
everywhere you go–
who are you, spider girl
but your one-and-only
Facebook photo–
a silver heart pendant
a fake hometown
a false alma mater
Nothing I do
is good enough for you—
not even
the sweat of my ink
you claim as your own
You say you’d be so cool
without me–
yet I know the truth
you’ve flipped upside down
Like a damselfly
I spread my wings
to disentangle myself
from your web of lies
The Neighbor
You walk like a queen
with your downgaze
dictating my downfall–
you'd like to place me
in a pillory
like a medieval prisoner
I’ve committed
the most unforgivable crime
in your eyes–
by being alive
when you'd like to squash me
like an insect under your sole
I have every right
to breathe the air you breathe
to free myself
from your collar of shame
I'm no criminal
and you're no monarch
Remembering an Old Crush
I've always wondered
if you wrote poetry
and if you did
what it was about–
the shiny new star-shaped rims
you got for your tires
all the girls you brought
to your Downtown LA suite
for cups of gourmet cappuccino
and one-night stands
whom you drove home the next day
in your polished gray sports car?
Do you need heartbreak
to write good poems?
Or do you, my prince
have depths beyond
your frat boy facade
to transcribe into verses
to touch the heart?
Bravo
I've longed to hear you
say it all my life–
only to be told the opposite.
You've branded me mediocre,
since I was old enough to know
the meaning of the word–
ordinary, unexceptional.
I'd rather be a retard than that.
I've had to discover for myself
that I'm a genius,
etch a star on my own chest,
place a crown on my own head.
Because to you,
I will always be a commoner,
a B that never makes it to A,
an act that gets no applause.
Creative Process
My therapist asks me
how I write the poems I write.
I tell her it’s similar
to painting cherry blossoms,
like I do in art therapy.
The words dab on the page
gentle like a kitten’s prints.
There are days when the cat
becomes a tiger,
and the pawsteps become stampedes.
Then there are days
when the cat falls asleep,
and the words don’t come at all
except perhaps in dreams–
faint silhouettes whose shapes
I can hardly decipher.
A Poetry Showcase for Jackie ChouNew Poems by Jackie Chou
Fevers of the Mind 