Do they get wrinkles, strokes,
become misshapen?
Do they spend their last days
in dingy nursing homes,
surrounded by paisley walls?
Where do they go when they die?
Are they cremated,
or neatly placed into a grave?
Do they rise up
shrunken and hunchbacked?
Maybe they're just like you and me,
waving their gnarled arms in the air
until the very end.
Bio: Jackie Chou writes poems about romantic love, friendship, coming of age, grief over losses, mental illness, the creative process, and more. Some of her works are published by Fevers of the Mind Press. Her new poetry collection, Finding My Heart in Love and Loss, published by cyberwit.net, is available on Amazon.
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.
Fevers of the Mind 