The Fourteenth of a Dozen Verses

Nympheas by the French impressionist painter Oscar-Claude Monet (1840–1926)

April 8, Friday
*88*

What is my favorite number?
Eighty-eight, I think; but why?

How 'bout my favorite letter?
C. No need to ask me why.

Will this life become better?
How come I feel very dry?

' can't escape from this tether
No matter how hard I try.

The raindrops pitter-patter
Like the salty tears I cry.

I sometimes melt like butter
Every time they act so wry.

Oh how I miss a banter!
And yes, this is not a lie.

April 9, Saturday
*Haze*

There goes my grandfather
Despite the cold weather,

Shearing flowers off their stalks.
Through the haze he slowly walks;

I learned to keep down at his gait;
Though weary, I patiently wait.

Many a morning we were like this—
Two selfless souls wandering in peace,

Searching for nothing and heading nowhere,
While in my head is "The Boys of Summer."

Back to the house Grandfather and I;
Back in my nest full of when? and why?

Wandering off, my restless mind;
Wondering if joy I shall find.

April 10, Sunday
*Impressions*

My bonnet is like a sonnet;
Don't ask me why?

Oh how lovely—
Isn't that Nympheas by Monet?

—Pastel pond, blush blooms, green grass
Adorn the scene.

[My head is turbid,
My body languid.]

Like stained glass,
Your charisma is so serene.

The birds on the roofs are merry;
They rouse the day.

This sonnet is like a bonnet;
Go figure why.

April 11, Monday
*Break*

In my nest,
I'm like an ostrich egg.

' Dig my head
Deep into the blanket

When I'm sad.
I seldom peck a grain.

Such a pest!
I need to break a leg.

I'm not dead.
Give me a plane ticket.

Always mad,
I cannot rest my brain.

So much pain!
You always keep me sane.

April 12, Tueday
*Spool*

I walk the streets again,
To pick up Amberlyn at school.

I don't forget my pen—
I am such a poetic fool!

Julie asks, "What's a tren?"
I quip, "What else, a choo-choo train."

We see gulls flying by.
We hear children saying goodbye.

The breeze kisses our skin.
A taste of freedom makes me spin.

The flowers tease my nose,
And the chilly northern wind blows.

We walk the streets again.
Back! I'm rewinding like a spool.

April 13, Wednesday
*Soup*

Knowledge is but a soup,
While my skull is a bowl.

Cultures are Rubik's cubes
Here on my fingertips.

Play it like a hula-hoop
Or free it like a fowl;

Spit it out like pubes;
Suck it like swollen nips.

My skull is like a bowl,
Drooling for a hot soup.

I can consist of bleeps
From telegraphic tubes.

When I begin to growl...
Still, I wouldn't stoop....

April 14, Thursday
*Tourine*

The ripple of urine in the toilet bowl
Has become an every-morning melody.

Prepare breakfast for Grandfather and myself—
Waffles and oatmeal and warm milk, as usual;

Log-on the Internet and text my sweetheart;
Kiss her to sleep and be with her in her dreams;

Touch her if only I could fly like a fowl,
So I may be pulled out of this malady;

Stare at the bathroom mirror and see an elf;
Read a book, recite a poem—that's typical;

Listen to music, sing the songs of my heart;
Take a nap to meet her again in my dreams.

........The ripple of the rain on the windowpane
........Is a reminder of my everyday pain.

April 15, Friday
*Animus*

The caress of the shower water on my skin is soothing.
The lather of shampoo on my hair is very relaxing.

The rubbing of the soap against my body is sweet friction.
The smell of freshness after a tiring day is elation.

Cold plus hot water equals somatic sat'sfaction,
But cold hearts and hot heads result in a hostile situation.

Day in and day out, I'm struggling to survive my condition.
Because of provocation I am close to insurrection.

The warm sheen of the sun is a therapeutic diversion.
It alleviates my distress; it balances my emotion.

In a sudden blur of thoughts, I get lost in recollection.
If only I could die and be reborn—reincarnation.

Compassion,consideration, they seem to be forgetting.
Sweet revenge and retaliation, if I'm not too forgiving.

April 16, Saturday
*Habits*

I used to bite my fingernails;
Step on kittens' and puppies' tails;

Dance in the rain, waddle in floods;
Pray in churches, believe in gods.

I used to climb acacia trees,
Look for crickets and honeybees;

Stay late on nights, play with my friends;
Weave my own stories, start new trends.

I used to be lost and restless;
And this often left me loveless.

Letting you go was great regret—
A mistake I could not forget.

........At last, our roads have crossed again.
........I will not longer wonder when.

April 17, Sunday
折 り 紙

I dreamed I was folding papers;
I was making caped crusaders.

All men are basic'lly Darth Vaders;
While many women, manhaters.

Say hello to The Mad Hatter;
Fare better, Martian Manhunter.

Don't leave me sprawled on the gutter.
When will my life become better?

I dreamed I was writing letters,
Sharing stories with my father.

I reached the end of my tether.
I feel like an owl without feathers.

........I dreamed I was folding papers,
........Making lanterns, kites, and roosters.

April 18, Monday
*Meat*

I have nothing against vegetarians,
But I'll never be one.

I have nothing against vegans,
But I'll never be one.

I have nothing against fructarians,
But I'll never be one.

I have nothing against homosexuals,
But I'll never be one.

I have nothing against animal hunters,
But I'll never be one.

I have nothing against slow learners,
But I'll never be one.

But I have something against racial intolerants,
And I'll never be one!

April 19, Tuesday
*Plague*

"What does profit a plagiarist if he gains the word
but loses the command of his own pen?"—Rain Paggao

........You can plagiarize me,
But you can't steal my immortality.

........You can plagiarize me,
But don't talk about morality.

........You can plagiarize me,
But you can't take away my dignity.

........You can plagiarize me,
But you can never claim originality.

........You can plagiarize me,
But you can never experience literary ecstasy.

The plagiarist, like cheap paper, crumbles in the end;
The author—the true child of knowledge—like breeze, lingers on....

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