Proud Artists Breed Poetry for Themselves 

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I will continue to work
In silence and obscurity
Loving what I do more than anyone
In this tiny world full of profiteers
I won’t profit from my art

It will rest like a blanket of
My most intimate identity
I have not a broken heart for myself
But a broken heart for this young world
That cannot seem to find its soul

Any relic of the dead is precious
And as such, the spirit of poetry
Lives on in me, like a light

That burns with the measures
Of all human words and love stories
For finally, it’s relationships
Which define and frame

Whatever uniqueness we most cherish
Comes from the dreams
I’ve had for my entire life
Though my ideas and the people
That surround me may have changed

Time and space conspire for my destiny
That my greatest love has always been
The quiet tranquility of sitting in a room
Bathed in the upstart unlimited imagination
Of the muse that can set you free.

Poems for Pretence #Writing #Amwriting #wordsmatter

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Poems for Pretence

They say print is dead
Our poems are stuck to the left margin
A self-published hoax

A charm of unread blogs
Liberty means we set our own price
Freedom requires we write
In obscurity, floating words

That aren’t sustainable
The memory of poems
The pain of going unread

How much does Amazon take
Skim off the top, and publisher’s?
What does it take to print a book of poems?

Luck, an MFA, friends?
If I never see a book of poems
Crafted in my own heart
They say what you wrote

“Your poem” was enjoyed
By the writer, the guidelines of copyright
States it auto-deletes in a few weeks
For humanity cannot be allowed

To keep their soul
They offer us to submit our poem again
However the analytics proved
It was not original, not state-approved

The best the staff can do
Is read it, sincerely, the editor
Please understand that you won’t
Be able to write poems any longer

The audience has died, the young
People do not read text more than three lines.

Clearly the Biggest EJ Koh Fan-page Ever

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Black Swan Job Application V

There’s something ritualistic
About eucalyptus candles
About applying heat, mint and flickering
To a writer’s body

First drafts, personal ink, editing
Our bodies know
There are absolutely no
Physical benefits to writing

But the psychic benefit is intense
The spiritual benefits are neurologically
Verified by functional MRIs
But, nothing changes a brain like

Becoming a poet, it’s a Chosun Dynasty
It means to have a heart that is free
Of attachments; poets belong
To their own social class

I’m an astrologer too, so in ancient courts
I’d be called poet-astrologer, now
That’s a vocation, or a joke
Since modern times spurns writers

There’s little doubt my spine is bent
My pelvis is sagging from so much sitting
I don’t have tricks for health
I only have the destiny of words

And a music in my cells
Stress relief comes from transparency
Realization comes from simplicity
Honour comes from prodigal creativit

But without reputation or profit
I just want to have some fun with it.