Self-Publishing Poetry

Summer

Summer is a balmy breeze

Sweeping over the sea

Summer is the sweet aroma

of ripe watermelon,

of freshly-baked waffle

Summer is the dripping ice cream 

Savoured by children

Summer is the fresh cut grass and

the blooming flowers

Summers sings from the treetops,

dances along the seashore

Summer swings across the sunlit sky

Summer seems endless

Yet quietly

It slips away

Cold Like Iced Americano

(Inspired by Michael Ondaatje's "Sweet Like A Crow")

Your voice sounds like a cup of iced Americano

brimming with crystal-clear cubes

Like the shattered iPhone screen

reflecting the blazing sunlight
through its minuscule fragments

Like a page of words torn off

from my favourite science fiction

Like a spoiled cabbage

a smashed watermelon
an overcooked egg

Like a prolonged lecture,

A professor rambling on endlessly

unaware of the dozing audience

Like a deflating balloon

venting in unrestrained delight

Like the dry, cracked, fissured skin

unable to be soothed by an emollient cream

Like a roasting chicken dropped into the crackling fire,

much to the dismay of the famished campers

Like the wind that carries away pieces of loose paper,

forcing the child to chase in vain;

the ominous dark clouds,

foreboding the coming storm;

the rain that poured down on an amusement park,

muffling the scream of teenagers on a roller coaster

Like the suffocating heat in a packed school bus,

and the bone-chilling current from North Pole

Like a girl uttering an unsympathetic rejection,

like a guy frowning upon a handmade card

Like a melted ice cream, a trampled rose

Like your shrill voice, 

when mispronounced my name.

A Poetic Reflection on A Mid-Spring Day

Poems Inspired by William Carlos Williams

The Pink Sheer Ribbon

so much depends 

upon

the pink sheer

ribbon

pulled into

a bow

adorning a

lovely card

Happy Mother's Day 

This Is Just To Say

I have dropped

the beef

into the

boiling pot

and when

you were probably

going

on a diet

Forgive me

they were delicious

you should

have some too

Sliced Beef at a Mongolian Hot Pot restaurant

The Sweet, Sour, and Salty Cake

A poetic response to The Metaphor by Budge Wilson

I once had a frosted cake

Adorned with icing 

overly colourful and sweet

That could only be relished 

By curious and artless children

Who welcomed the intense flavour 

of the frosting

as an appetizer 

That activated their curiosity for words 

and creativity

However 

The cake was cruelly rejected 

And condemned 

And mocked

By the sophisticated and ignorant crowds

Who only judge by the superficial facade

They never discovered that

Beneath the covering

There were two delectable layers:

Chocolate that was rich and sweet 

And would leave people craving more;

And vanilla that was subtle and delicate

That was hard to perceive 

yet impossible to forget

That still lingers on my palate

leaving me in sour remorse

I knew I should have treasured it

But instead

I let it melt

Into a puddle of frosting 

and broken dreams 

salted with tears

The Summertime Sadness

A poetic response to "The Sound of the Hollyhocks"

Source

In the summer during which hollyhocks bloomed,

the flowers witnessed a story

of a young man who once wandered by in gloom:

Born into a wealthy family

Life had always been smooth  

Yet when it came to the purpose of life

He was overwhelmed by confusion and lack of clue.

Then Sandra came into his life

and taught him how to love and care

Until his mother interfered

and tore up the entire affair.

Sandra departed and never reappeared,

her abrupt death in an accident left him in tears.

His mother attempted to mend his broken heart,

only did she not know that 

it's her who shattered his hope

and forced the couple apart.

The young man lived the rest of his days 

in a purposeless way

He gave up his sanity and talked to the flowers in vain

When the despair finally faded and things started to progress

His mother appeared 

and triggered the nightmares he tried to suppress

The flowers became silent after they had explained his death

Because they too, started to wither away 

as summer was taking its last breath

Gentlemen, My Verdict

A poetic response to "Gentlemen, Your Verdict"

A guilty man or not

A respectable man he is

Commanded with firm and calm

When the submarine was shuddered by bomb.

When the crew stumbled and feared
When the death was creeping near
When the facts were transmitted via radio
He saw a dreadful yet practical scenario:

Instead of twenty desperate men gasping for air,
Five men could go home and unite with the families of theirs
Yet the remaining fifteen would never see the light
or their loved ones laughing in delight.

What a cruel and stressful decision he had to make!
With neither option desirable and both fatal.
Nevertheless he chose,
as the slim of hope for survival was drawing to a close.

The captain assembled the men for a last speech
and thanked them for their dedication
and company along the journey
Every man raised his cup and drank without knowing
that his purpose was fulfilled and his life was ending
Death arrived in an instant yet left 6 men standing:

Five married men and the captain himself,
who informed the men of their hard job
is to wait and continue to serve the country
while bearing the burden and guilt within themselves.
The captain declared that the entire responsibility is his
then he embraced Death and joined the crew of his

Dear ladies and gentlemen, my verdict is not guilty
Despite the unlawful act for sacrificing fifteen lives for five
The nature of humanity and a series of reasoning can justify his crime

Because what else could you choose

If you were in his shoes?
Save lives to the best of your ability?
Or watch them all die for the sake of nobility?

Death, Brutality, and Beauty

The Book Thief by Markus Zusak illustrates a story with a pile of stolen books, a collection of colours that hardly fade, and a series of words woven in a simple yet delicate manner.

In the 1930's-40's Nazi German, wars and death have never been more frequent. Liesel Meminger, a child of a Communist family, has been deprived of her one and only brother, her mother, and a father she has never known of by the age of 9. With nothing but sorrow and a stolen book, she arrives on Himmel Street, Molching, and starts her life with her foster parents, the Hubermanns. 

In her four years of childhood on the Himmel Street, Liesel encounters a boy with lemon-coloured hair, a Jewish fist fighter who has hair like black feathers, a constantly depressed woman who owns an immense library, and a group of fanatical Nazi soldiers. Liesel's world is changed forever by Papa (Hans Hubermann), an accordionist and a painter, who has taught her letters and kindness, and has provided her the security she longs the most. Liesel's life is also influenced by Ilsa Hermann, whose library is a great source of Liesel's stolen books. Ilsa gives Liesel an opportunity to pursue her passion and love for books, and encourages her to write her own.

The book emphasizes that words have both the unimaginable power to create chaos and misery, and the ability to heal and save a person's soul. The magic of words fascinates Liesel, yet she can't deny her controversial feeling of hating and loving them at the same time. In fact, the Book Thief itself is a piece of art with its deep and lyrical writing. The unique narration by Death creates vivid imagery that illustrates the ordinary life a German girl, and makes the story a truly extraordinary masterpiece. 

After I finished reading the story during the summer, I have always wanted to express my affection for the novel and my gratitude for Markus Zusak for telling a story in such a beautiful way. The simplicity of writing and the twists in plot have presented me with brutality and beauty of both living and death. The Book Thief has altered my attitude toward language forever.