Rain

It’s that time of year again. When Christmas comes to Seattle. It’s like love rains from the sky and sticks to the roofs in illumination. Lights atop every single roof, making the night mystical.

            It puts you at peace. It makes you wish that time would stand still, that this minuscule moment could last for more than mere seconds. It feels as if there could not be a time of more warmth than this one.
            And all the distractions melt away into a puddle of contentment, like the pools of rain water - weightless and resting on the pavement. Because tonight the vast sky sends down rain, not without reason, but as a reminder that rain is not all gloomy, that tears are not all shed in sadness, that things that fall down are not all bad. In fact, rain creates beauty on a windowpane overlooking strings of dazzling lights, and tears can fall in light of a moment of pure joy, and things that fall always fall for a purpose.

- completed December 28, 2010
(The idea behind this poem, especially the last line: "things that fall always fall for a purpose" was written in the idea of Jesus coming to Earth. God decided to send his son as the lowest of the low - falling from power. Jesus was no king or person of status, he was an ordinary man who sought to seek the sinners, the people who realized they were unworthy. And it was all for a purpose.
But you are encouraged to have some other interpretations and inspirations from the line. :)

Clowns Juggle

I go to the circus
and see the clowns
in their bright suits
juggling away

They juggle
like it can ease
life's problems
as easy as
that

But juggling is
hard
It takes practice
practice
and more practice

If only
we could control
our lives
like the clowns
control the bright balls

written on September 28, 2009 for a free write in Mr. Green's English class

Sleuth for Truth

There is a question that always baffles me.
It's my indecision,
of whether it is better to be mediocre at all things
or marvelous at one thing.

Whether it is better to skim along middle ground
or take a risk, dive deep and perhaps discover valuable rewards - or possibly never come back up again.
Some risks are worth taking - the ones that end up reaping rewards,
others are not.

One way or another,
it seems I will either be a little unprepared for a specific task
or extremely unprepared for many tasks, yet fully ready for that single one.
Unable to escape unpreparedness.
Unable to choose the better future.

Because, the truth is
I don't have all the time in the world to find out which path to take
and
I'm just
not
good
enough.

Guilt Trip

Failing, Falling, Fearing.
They say honesty is the best policy,
But they forgot to tell me that sometimes it can hurt.
That freeing yourself with the truth can make you feel guilty.

Well, if it is the truth,
that honesty, the pursuit of truth, is the best policy.
Then I must've done something right.
Fixing, Flying, Freeing.

But it's too early to tell.

Insomniac

Lying and waiting, for a snippet of sleep, is slow and painful.
At first it is quite peaceful, being under layers of gentle cotton.
But soon enough, it is anything but comfortable.
Wishing for rest, all I experience is restlessness.
Squirming and thrashing, hoping to position myself and stay one way until morning.
The impatient movements break the silence - that quiet is at first sweet, but now agonizing.
I revert to ancient methods, perhaps counting sheep.
But there are no sheep in my blank blurry visualizations, only darkness.
The black night is all around me, bringing despair and blocking out any glimmer of light and life.
Initially, the dark was still, unmoving, a presence. But now it blends and swirls, spreading even farther toward infinite distances, breaking down imaginary walls, smothering all things.
Until, I am falling. Spiraling down in a deep hole, disappearing, my shrieks hollow, in nothingness.
By now I can no longer differentiate my reality from my dreams.
I do not know where I am. But I do know something, I am content, asleep.

December the First

It rained.
Water washed over the branches, the buildings, the buses.
The pavement is damp and dark.
Just weeks ago, vivid maple leaves swirled in the air, floating on thin wisps of wind.
Only, now they are flattened, as if stapled to the ground.
Lifeless, still, trampled on.
Sticking out against the beige of the concrete, they take on a ashen hue, as if scorched by a million dancing flames.
No longer skittering across the road and resting in a crunchy pile, not for another year.

Wintery Treats

We see one, two, numberless snowflakes.

It continues to fall steadily without any break.

It’s a sign that winter is finally here,

the season of welcoming a brand new year.

For now, inside our warm cozy home we stay,

waiting for the snow to stop so we can go out and play.

To greet the new season we make some wintery treats,

fun to eat and simple and sweet.

We start by making gingerbread men.

taking out the cookie cutters and frosting once again.

The aroma of the batter brings back memories from years before,

we roll out the dough and cut out gingerbread men galore.

Then we stick them in the oven to let them bake,

Once they’re ready we take them out to decorate.

The cookies are done but we certainly aren’t,

how can you eat them without the final part?

We stir chocolate and warm milk in a mug,

then add marshmallows for the final touch.

A crunch and a sip until it’s all gone.

The treats were delightful, I think as I yawn.

The snowflakes have all fallen and we can go play,

but we’ve had enough fun making goodies today.

All that’s left is a sugary trace of gingerbread and chocolate,

But it’s the memories of togetherness that really please my head.

written December 18, 2007 for a Poetry Project 

Hibernating

I know this problem is present, but it's no gift. It's like a nuisance, an allergy, clinging to my insides. 
            Hibernating, hiding. I wish it wasn't this way, but it's like friendship is winter, and I'm a grizzly who needs a long break, yearns for the bare comfort and nothingness of its cave.
            Or maybe I'm a magnet, where positive and positive can never meet. When things get too good with another being, and the positives draw near - so close to closure - I retreat.
            I thought I'd come home from the retreat, and things could be mended, I could be happy, build new bridges. The bridge; it is almost finished, with a bow wrapped around it, prepared for the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Instead, the bridge sits idle, already decaying, until one day when I have the courage to take a big pair of scissors and break the bond of the restrictive lazy ribbon and let the cars be free to roam, going wherever they may please. And I'll reign in the coming and going, the rise and decline, the ups and the downs - and stop shying away from the possibilities, expecting the bad parts, but savoring the good. One day.
         

Unlikely Treasures

We took a field trip to a long deserted beach, where the tide had once lapped at the sand we stood on, but had since receded back a few hun­dred feet.
Lit­tered in the sand were old gad­gets and giz­mos that peo­ple in the beach houses had once owned.
My eye caught onto a tele­phone from the 70’s. It was long anti­quated and the paint peeled in banana yel­low strips, but I knew the receiver had once lis­tened in on whis­pered con­ver­sa­tions, and the spin dial had once turned round and round to reach the voice of beloved friends. It held mem­o­ries, so many old mem­o­ries. Why would any­one want to throw that out?
Scat­tered on the deserted beach were more objects of the like, antique and rust­ing in time.
But to me, it wasn’t a junk­yard, it was a trove of forgotten treasures.

written on November 14, 2010 for the daily word "junkyard" on oneword.com

Let Her Eat Cake

Her brother called her fat all the time, even though she was thin as a pen­cil core and light as a lark's feather.
Watch­ing her eat annoyed him to no end.
Always being penul­ti­mate, he'd found a way to crit­i­cize her.
But she ate because she had a deep pas­sion for the art of cui­sine,
and because the del­i­ca­cies were just so exquis­itely deli­cious.
Going for the golden fluffy cook­ies, she couldn’t resist her­self from a sec­ond help­ing.
Tak­ing a bite into the floury good­ness, she blissfully rel­ished the del­i­cate lay­ers of vanilla dissolving on her tongue and the growing scowl on her brother’s face.

written on November 10, 2010 for the daily word "helping" on oneword.com

Impending Storm

Her golden hair blew furi­ously in the wind,
the waves crashed vio­lently against the tall char­coal rocks,
her crested cheeks turned crim­son from the chill,
and warmed up viciously as she remem­bered what he’d said one year and three months ago.
Rage was not some­thing she usu­ally let out,
but she’d held the bur­den for too long.
The dark volu­mi­nous storm clouds swiftly approached,
they couldn’t have framed her mood more per­fectly.
The water started to freefall from the spa­cious sky,
drop­ping harder faster and larger with every sec­ond,
set­ting the stage for a rag­ing hurricane.

written on November 1, 2010 using the daily word "stage" on www.oneword.com

Whimsical Wednesday

The golden ball hung in the sky, it sent rays down­wards, shin­ing shin­ing.
The cerulean blue was calm, it shim­mered shim­mered.
And the wind whis­tled softly but steadily, blow­ing blow­ing.
It caught onto the vibrant col­ors of the mast, apple red, bal­loon blue, and bright yel­low.
Dis­ap­pear­ing into the dis­tance, car­ry­ing hap­pi­ness to another place.
Sail sail away.

written on October 29, 2010 for the daily word "sail" on oneword.com

Mixed Melody

The sharpness of the siren pierced the air. She cringed and curled up in a corner.
Then came the giver of comfort. “Don’t worry child, listen closely, for it is a song.”

Written on October 27, 2010 for the daily word "siren" on oneword.com

Falling

Falling is inevitable. It's only a matter of time, before things decay and disappear.
             Empires fall apart, wars will start, human lives end, you lose a friend, spirits are crushed, good fruit is smushed, relationships are torn, animosity is born, possessions are broken, hearts are stolen.
             Perfection does not exist, when time holds the power to resist. It's a key we can never hold, an element out of our reach.
             Even leaves on a tree know one day they will twist off the branches, disconnect from their mothers and float, flit, and twirl slowly to the ground, but they are prepared for the time to come. That's why leaves change colors in the Autumn - they know they're going to fall, so might as well do it with some grace and beauty.
             Someday the fall will happen. Humans, objects, history will all be taken into its destructive grasp. But if we can predict the future and know that one day it will happen, we must embrace it. Accept the challenge and fall with style, elegance, and perhaps with a smile.

The Microphone was Still On

I'm actually blanking, right now.
Totally & completely blanking out.
Just like last night,
when I stepped into the bright light,
clad in an elegant dress and sparkling eyes,
ready to say my line,
and announce the next act.
My mind was blank,
just blank as a whiteboard,
a spankin' new whiteboard.
Even as I stepped out from the green room,
I knew I'd forgotten,
forgotten the words,
the words I'd rehearsed mere seconds before.
Thankfully Lillie's a quick thinker,
we skipped my line,
and started with hers,
an unmistakably awkward way to start the lines.
The rest of the lines were fine,
I actually remembered.
When we finished and made it back,
backstage, I laughed and said:
"Oh, now I remember my first line."
Later, my Dad let me know,
that everyone had heard.

written on February 22, 2010 for a free write in Mr. Green's English class (name changed for privacy)

Blank

Blank
out
of
my
mind

Blank
like a clean sheet of paper
like a brand new canvas
like snow

Blank stares.
Blank pages.
Blank lines.
Blank faces.

Empty,
Clear,
Clean,
New,
Nothing.
Blank.

written on November 23, 2009 for a freewrite in Mr. Green's English class

This Is Just To Say

I have flown

to New Zealand

which was on

the "To Do List"

and

you are probably

missing

my presence

Forgive me

this island is so gorgeous

so warm

and so inviting.

Written September 15, 2009 as spin-off (copy change) of This Is Just To Say By William Carlos Williams for Mr. Green's class.

Young Love

It was the night of

my brother's birthday.

Celebrating 10 sweet years.

I thought back and back,

rewinding to my 10th year, 

reminiscing a past of innocence and happiness.

A past of playgrounds

and tag

and freedom and friends.

"Hey, Jonah, do you like anyone?"

He says he's friends with a girl.

Elaine.

"But do you like her?"

He says no but they're classmates, so they must be friends.

And his cheeks go rosy and he escapes to his room.

That's young love.

written on October 19, 2009 for Mr. Green's Monday Journal Free Writes (names changed for privacy)

Impossible

I am future-oriented. That is who I am and what I strive to be. To get it all, the way I define it. Exact.

Still, I fail to realize that the future is not exactly tangible. If you think about it, you can never touch the future, because it will always be one step ahead. But that doesn’t stop me from chasing after the uncatchable, trying to accomplish the impossible. Some may say that there are no such things as impossibility, but I think there are. My objective is not in reversing the impossible, but achieving the unlikely. I'm on a mission to shine. 

written on October 5, 2010 (at 4 am and falling asleep) for a Scarlet Letter Project

Fog

I was walking to school one morning and noticed the fog off in the distant highlands. It was a strong, clear wisp entangled around an evergreen tree. Its lonely appearance was what captured my attention to notice it.

             The next morning the fog was spread out and looked thin and mysterious. This time I couldn’t help but notice the fog, because it just happened to be everywhere.

            I find that this is the same way with friends. To make an influence and be influenced, one must put certain people above others, rather than treat everyone the same. This is the fog that was wrapped around the single tree. This is who I want to be, but I can’t bring myself to pick and choose one over another. Ironically this is the exact thing that is so necessary.

Contrastingly, the fog that was spread out had touched all of its surroundings, the impact on each tree was minor, but the impact altogether was something else. This is the picture of where I am at. It is like sticking one leg halfway into cold water and the other half way into hot water, uncomfortable and uninviting. In groups of people, if you try to get to know both groups, you only know each one briefly. While the groups within are warm and bubbly, it seems that when you wander in they become dull and chilly. Something about silence, can usually be so comforting, but so cutting in these cases.

Pick and choose I must do, but.

Maybe I don’t have to choose them, and they will choose me.

written on October 5, 2010 (at 4 am and falling asleep) for a Scarlet Letter Project

Anchor

What I’ve learned over the years is that almost everything is a team effort. A companion is one who can lift a little burden off of you. They give good advice, suffer with you despite their own problems. They offer comfort and strength.

And they know Control is like an anchor. It keeps you rooted and stable. But too much anchor is no good, too much control is being stuck without the ability for movement forward or back – no progress. Therefore, too much control is really no control at all.

I am in control.

And back out again. But that’s okay.  

There will be another calm after the storm.

written on October 5, 2010 (at 4 am and falling asleep) for a Scarlet Letter Project

My Name

In English, Tang has connotations to the juice. In Chinese, Tang actually means “soup” – no joke. It is short and simple; it is four letters long. When I explain what it really means, people chuckle – but I don’t explain it often.

            It’s not a common surname, but it is my brother’s, my father’s, my grandfather’s, all the others. And it is also mine. Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t change it. A last name is nothing like a first name. It is foreign, but it is easy to pronounce – even though it’s actually pronounced with a short O sound. That doesn’t bother me though; even I pronounce it wrong, and on purpose.

            It’s cool in school when we learn about Chinese history and the prosperity of the Tang Dynasty. It was a good time: expansion, stable government, extensive trade, and all that usual jazz.

            I would like to be thought of as a princess – even if the unit only lasts for a week. But the truth is the Tang in my name is different from the Tang in the dynasty. My Tang means soup, their Tang means sugar, candy, and sweetness. But, no one has to know the difference.

written May 25, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment as a spin-off of "My Name"

A House of My Very Own

We didn’t always live in Woodinville. Before that we lived in apartments. There was the one in Redmond. And before that Raleigh, and even earlier, the one in Cary. But the earliest of all was in Starkville – where I was born. I still remember the insides of each of the homes, the homes that housed me and my memories, my childhood. Each time I left one behind, I came to live in an apartment that was better than the one before.

            But now we have a house of our own, one even better than any of the others before it. The interiors aren’t cramped, they aren’t identical with the ones near it, and they aren’t dull. When I pull open the blinds, light flies in and attaches itself to the walls, making my house bright & livelier – like a baby after it first open’s its eyes. At first sight I don’t realize it, but this house might be just the one that I had always wanted.

            We left North Carolina for Washington, because my father finally got a real, stable job. We lived there for 5 years and before that we lived in Mississippi for another 5.

            I’d always imagined a house, with 2 sets of staircases on either side of the house, handy for a quick escape if a kidnapper tried to corner you in your own house. The house was a pale blue or yellow or something else light and flouncy, but more than anything I wanted the inside of the house to be painted in some sort of complicated color scheme. In my head, it was always carpeted with smooth light cream colored carpet, as if vanilla ice-cream smothered the floor, and the kitchen would be spread with synthetic light cedar wood flooring. The backyard would have to be open and free, spacious enough for picnics and as a haven for visiting animals.

            Instead this house is small, but cozy. It’s coated with a dark and distasteful brown on the outside, but on the inside it’s clean and crisp and white. The floors are real hardwood, which is where a large portion of its value is derived. It’s got a nice backyard, big enough to satisfy my mother’s gardening desires and more. Finally, I was granted my very own room. At 12, I decided to paint it bright coral pink.

            Occasionally, I get rides to get home after school. “Which house is yours?” They will ask. “That brown one right ahead”. I imagine them cringe at the icky brown hue clinging to the exterior of my home. But they will never know until they walk inside. This home of mine is actually lit up and happy on the inside. Especially on sunny days, my pink bedroom sends out bursts of pink, reflecting onto the adjacent wall; it’s a sight to see.

            The more I stay in this house, I realize that it’s a lot like me. I may not be extremely attractive or flamboyant on the outside, but on the inside I’m singing a million colors, bursting back rays of light, and burning warm high spirits. My house is a part of me, and I a part of it.

            We’ve moved every 5 years, but this is my 6^th in the State. Will we move again? I don’t think so, we are stable here, rooted in the foundations of this home, my home.

written May 25, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment as a spin-off of "A House of My Own"

Mitzy Writes Stories

Mitzy is four months older than me, but she seems like she should be four years younger. Still, we are best friends. Like any other girl, she is caring, helpful, and honest. Yet, she is so similar to a small child: a little oblivious, awkward, and spontaneous. Every time she emails me, she tells me about her life, she titles the subject “week”, and she sends them to me week after week. She writes stories, they go on and on and on. Sure, they’re funny, but there is never much control over her plotline.

            She tells me about her dreams, and I tell her about mine. They’re whimsical and a little odd like a ladybug caught in a windstorm – but always funny. She has many random thoughts that don’t connect, but the big thing is listening to her talk about her past.

            Mitzy always remembers the weird events. The funny times, but the ones that are always somewhat irrelevant and easily forgotten. Boys, wood, and cheese. Out of her mind and through her mouth. I can’t help but laugh. Then the next time I talk to her, it’s boys, wood, and cheese. Same odd memories.

            Don’t get me wrong, Mitzy is loving and genuine, a wonderful friend. But there’s something about her, it’s different. She’s a dreamer, a happy spirit. She encourages others and lives in a quirky trance, in a mind that I will never understand.

written May 25, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment as a spin-off of "Minerva Writes Poems" (character name changed for privacy)

Hourglass

Pitter Patter, Pitter Patter. Drops of water fall from the darkened starry sky, as I sit awake in the safeties of my home. Click click click click, goes the keyboard as my essay starts to form. The rest is silence, as my house stirs to sleep, minus me.

But all I hear is the pitter patter-ing, reminding me of the seconds that tick by slowly. The seconds that I’m losing from the time I could be snuggled up and dreaming, the seconds of sand specks that fall in the hourglass of my lifetime.

Suddenly, I’m imagining the first time I went to SeaWorld at 3, and moving away from my best friend at 4, then hearing the boy yell “I love you” on the last day of 5^th grade. Like a child, I wish I could hop into a time machine and change my past. I wish I could time travel and shape my future. Just as soon as I’m daydreaming, I snap back into reality, the reality being that I have an essay to finish. Time seems to drag on as strands of words construct themselves into sentences, then paragraphs.

            It is in this seemingly insignificant moment where I realize time moves so fast, yet so slow. But it keeps on moving and isn’t afraid to leave us behind. Every moment can be magical, but only if you allow it to be.

written May 22, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment for the subject of rain

Coming Home

One year and five months ago, I lived in a cave. I could perform basic skills like math and obtaining food. But like a robot, I lacked any signs of liveliness.

I wandered the halls, avoiding eye contact with anyone else. Everyone passed by, even the friends, for I had mastered the art of blending in. For me, there was no point in interaction, no reason to be happy.

Three syllables was what it took: Want to dance? It was sweet while it lasted, but the next days were excruciatingly awkward. Though all I wished for was friendship, I reverted back to antisocial Joyce, and played the avoiding game. I might’ve broken a part of his heart unintentionally, yet that night he had mended mine. Surprisingly, I was more confused than I had ever been before. Luckily, I had the whole summer to think it over.

Three months of sunshine, and the layers of unnecessary fortification around my heart slowly undid itself. My mouth learned how to emit laughter and my lips to curve upward. I watched myself make others laugh and spewed out words of encouragement. I overflowed happiness and nothing could control it – I was finally coming home.

written May 22, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment for the subject of coming home

Coffee

It was a cold dreary morning when we left the motel room in Ohio. Hungrily, I eyed the small variety of complementary continental breakfast choices splayed out in the compact lobby. After a mediocre bowl of corn flakes, I decided I needed something warm.

            “What’s that?” I asked my father, peeking over the rim of his steaming cup. “Coffee,” he stated, rather groggily. “Is it good?” I inquired. “Try it,” he shrugged. “Can’t you describe what it tastes like,” I whined. “Only you can perceive what you experience for yourself,” he replied blatantly.

            Swallowing my growing curiosity, I took a teeny sip. It was horrid. And it scorched my tongue. Instead of spitting the black liquid out like I’d wanted to, I gulped in the bitterness – the coffee burning all the way down.

            Maybe it was the caffeine finally kicking in, but I claim it was the acrid taste. I just couldn’t fall asleep that night, lying awake in bed, unable to shake the memory of that taste, that terrible taste.

            Whatever the cause of my insomnia, I’d learned a valuable lesson. My dad was right in saying that only I could decide the taste after trying it, for everyone has unique responses. But the question was, was that cup of coffee worth giving a try? Is everything worth giving a try? I would soon learn that in many cases, I’d need a dose of common sense and a shot of audacity.

written May 22, 2010 for a House on Mango Street assignment for the subject of coffee