One Hundred Words a Day
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
 | Chàng cười cùng cái |
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
News Headline
"Casinos in Tunica, Miss.," inundated
Not by people nor money
But water.
God had no better way to keep away
The gamblers.
The pastor kept silent when
the water rose over fields
lifted furniture
swept off the church.
God had better say why
He didn't want pastures
or pastors.
It is better not to proselytize.
Only pray
that you're wise
when disaster would hit.
Your soul fit.
sinless like which of mice.
¶ 9:38 PM 0 Comments
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"Casinos in Tunica, Miss.," inundated
Not by people nor money
But water.
God had no better way to keep away
The gamblers.
The pastor kept silent when
the water rose over fields
lifted furniture
swept off the church.
God had better say why
He didn't want pastures
or pastors.
It is better not to proselytize.
Only pray
that you're wise
when disaster would hit.
Your soul fit.
sinless like which of mice.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
My Son Diya
Light of my life--a lamp in darkness.
Size-wise a little man. Soul-wise, an unconquerable spirit.
"Mind over matter. Nothing wrong in smallness."
You see, he's all wit,
He makes me proud, I must confess.
He's the best defender in this football game: soccer,
swift as a rocket from mid-field to keeper,
He's his brother protector,
his sister's tormentor, his mother's helper.
He's a violinist (and also pianist)
"full-cup" optimist,
He's intuitive in science,
not impulsive with fists.
He has the wisdom of a Dalai Lama
His goggling, lazy eyes evoke a llama,
Boy as in "boisterousness"
He is my Diya.
8/30/2010
¶ 12:47 PM 0 Comments
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Size-wise a little man. Soul-wise, an unconquerable spirit.
"Mind over matter. Nothing wrong in smallness."
You see, he's all wit,
He makes me proud, I must confess.
He's the best defender in this football game: soccer,
swift as a rocket from mid-field to keeper,
He's his brother protector,
his sister's tormentor, his mother's helper.
He's a violinist (and also pianist)
"full-cup" optimist,
He's intuitive in science,
not impulsive with fists.
He has the wisdom of a Dalai Lama
His goggling, lazy eyes evoke a llama,
Boy as in "boisterousness"
He is my Diya.
8/30/2010
Sunday, May 8, 2011
2011 Literary Orange
¶ 12:51 PM 0 Comments
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This close to touching heaven
and all the fun
of being published.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Upon Listening to Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking"
My father's wife
and not my mother
takes him to his grave.
My mother has made sure of that.
that he is long, long dead.
dead the same day she died,
Dead, wrapped in her love for him
in her longing for him,
that no death can part.
My father's wife
and not my mother
takes him to his bed.
his body near her,
his soul long departed. ¶ 9:43 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
My father's wife
and not my mother
takes him to his grave.
My mother has made sure of that.
that he is long, long dead.
dead the same day she died,
Dead, wrapped in her love for him
in her longing for him,
that no death can part.
My father's wife
and not my mother
takes him to his bed.
his body near her,
his soul long departed. ¶ 9:43 PM 0 Comments Links to this post
Thursday, March 31, 2011
A Dream Within a Dream - Edgar Allen Poe
Read by Alejandre Abaygar
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
¶ 10:14 AM 0 Comments
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Read by Alejandre Abaygar
Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow-
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.
I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand-
How few! yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep- while I weep!
O God! can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?
