Friction of Pure Being


Aware of Moving Poems

We are moving poems
We don’t have to speak
To be acknowledged
Sometimes, we just sit

And watch the world
So much beauty, so little time
We don’t always realize
Each cell, each plant, each flower

Each star, touches other
Cells, planets, flowers, stars
Other human beings, that’s
How literature works,

That’s how the world is made
We are like moving poems
That do not need to create
For by existing, we are creative

We do without do
And influence without trying
By your very matter of being
You matter and radiate

The you-ness of your energy
It doesn’t take an effort
To live our one nature fully
But it comes out, in unspeakable ways

Surprising even the watcher
Time leads us to new poems.

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Sleep would be nice….

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Sleepless in Montreal

Midway upon the journey
Of our lives, I found that
I could fall in love with a poetess
With the mere sight of her words

Korean-American Sappho
Though in great times of self-doubt
I must recall that words befriended me
In an empathy human beings

Declined, I made my way
To emotions and experiences
That felt the universe, thus I too
Because a minor poet, full

Of the surprise with the way of life
That agreed with me, rather
Like divinity on the shelf
Always within reach

The sound of a new poem
In my mouth being born
It was the ode to spiritual hunger
I never knew, the thrill of always

Finding something around the corner
The delight to echo the sleep
Of sad years that broke free
Your cheeks of Seattle still crisp

Like the aroma of apples
I cannot reach, that’s the breeze
Whispering of your foreign name
I am sick in my own, that I require

To translate you into a muse
Squeeze you dry with poetic embraces
That can only find new sentences
For the fragrance of your need.