One Hundred Words A Day
Wednesday, January 26, 2011

  Writing Prompt: "It's not marked but my feet know it..."

My home is no longer real--although I know it's there,
more like a corpse--eyes closed, hands folded
more like a couple whose love had been robbed
whose life descends to a merciless routine.

My home is here, beating in my heart--though only I feel it.
My simple bed is there, my white pillow,
window to the sky
sparrows learn to fly.
Sunday, January 23, 2011

  The tip of the iceberg

Dear Rich,

I found this on the net, one of thousands audio books archived by volunteers and made available on the internet to any listener longing for some meaningful sounds.
You can spend your whole lifetime here
.  No, Rich, my friend, the underlined words are not the title of a book.  In this age, it means it's "clickable," meaning when you click on the words with your mouse (yes, that rectangular area below your laptop keyboard that you've been mistaking as a dried out ink pad; or that flatten football sitting next to your PC keyboard that you thought is your wife's makeup case, and did not dare touch it.  No, it's not the poor little creature chased by your cat), a new web page will open for you.

So click on it, my friend, don't fear.  You are about to encounter some great literatures, those masterpieces that you thought that cheese-head mouse had chewed all up during your sleep.

Tonight, I am spending my time on "The Wind in the Willows."  What are you choosing, Rich?  Or are you too stunt to proceed, poor friend?  We can share the same book, if you do not think too poorly of my taste.  All you need to do is to click--yes, not push-- on that little triangle, like the "play" symbol on your familiar cassette player.  There you go.  You see, it does not explode, my friend.

Your writing friend, Hong-My

Thursday, January 13, 2011


This afternoon at 2 o'clock,
its head reaching the clouds, the mountain climbs the sky.
Its cap plastered ,
its poems scattered
in blotchy white into the sea.

Santa, his belly flat
blood stained the emerald lawn,
eyes strained on the mountain
now sky in puffy white.

"Watch downhill speed,"
defiantly, a sweeper spins,
ear muffed, splashing mud
to the jaundiced sign.
like a tank
sweeping brown limbs
bone-fragile twigs
out of sight.
Soft petals like flesh pulverized
bulldozed, drained
wine for the storm gut.

Where are the lights?
Gone is Christmas
Poor wire reindeer perched bare and bored
Pines on the curb
foot severed. Still green.

By a low wall crouches
a laborer
Stuccoing the brick with sandy gold
Brown skin under gray jacket.
boots mud-smeared,
buttocks reared up.

Two mountains meet
and climbs into a man
rises on his feet.
A commitment to write


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Mother, Engineer, writer, manager, and more. I am a bit of everything, a creature of God. I am passionate with life. I fear death and its many forms. I love my mind, cherish my body. I express through WORDS.

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