Korean Tomb A Mystery
Traditions treasured in a Korean tomb
family’s fate secured with honor, face
centuries captured secrets now in
tranquil mausoleums
molded from mountains forever sealed
mountains roll curtsy to the landscape
dressed in lush green
a memorial bed of sod where humans
and heaven resign
paradise dwellings of the dearly departed
Oh, the surroundings an enclosure of mountains
contours conform to the land
in the form of a garden
sunlight on the side of waving hills bulbs bloom
soft winds blow
pine scent endures
as day rests, a bright white light creates a halo
night announced a penumbra
night, mountains, moon,
cause to marvel on mysteries
time moves as a floating cloud
a blue moon kisses the sky goodnight
daunting shadows dance with floating clouds amid the tombs
as the sun rises, shadows silently disappear
quiet as flowers
“In the land of the morning calm,”
another day in a Korean tomb
begins
Reflection
What happened to the family?
I called my cousin.
I was cancelled.
As insignificant, irrelevant, and brushed aside.
In our childhood, my mother shared her home, food, and love with her nieces and nephews,
and I was very close to my cousins.
Now, one wonders what happened to the
once close-knit family ties.
Family ties are now dead.
My cousins are like strangers to me.
What created this phenomenon?
What happened to the extended family ties we once had in this sick, sad,
sorry world we live in?
If families can’t at least keep in touch,
what hope do we have to communicate:
friendship, share cheerfulness, happiness,
and joy with the rest of the world?
I hope my family can once again make amends and renew our family ties.
My door’s open to all.
Mama’s Slippers
Mama’s fuzzy slippers were sinking,
Like Salvador Dali’s painting,
“The Persistence of Memory,”
Her time is wrapped, hung down, bent over,
exhausted.
Seems to hug, clasp, embrace
the back of her favorite chair.
Mama’s fuzzy slippers are light,
smoothly worn,
spongy, soft, squeezable,
shaped like a small Indian boat,
yellow, brown interwoven wool.
A playful wool ball crowned the instep of mama’s slippers.
Mama’s slippers could fit the feet
of a ballerina,
in an interlude from an opera.
Out of the blue, mama would say,
“When I die, make sure my feet are warm,’’
I would pretend not to listen.
Mama died.
I realized I listened.
I gave the funeral director mama’s slippers.
I thought no more of it.
Mama buried.
Slippers returned.
Whenever I hold mama’s slippers,
my heart, filled with warm, sweet joy.
I remember the smell of her perfume.
Soul Dancing on Cotton
We’re off to Mississippi, where cotton is snow in the summertime.
Mockingbirds sing sweet songs all year long.
Magnolias scent the air.
Tom Sawyer and Huckleberry Finn,
barefoot boys
floating on a raft down an intense brown muddy Mississippi playing Jacks.
Here comes the Greenville crowd
on a pilgrimage to Biloxi for the blessing
of the fleet.
Look, the Muppets, Kermit the Frog,
and Miss Piggy!
Bert and Ernie, too!
Off to celebrate the shrimp festivals, fairs, music celebrations everywhere.
In the fragrant moonlight
in notable Mississippi,
we decided to have a party under a flowering magnolia tree singing,
“Go, Mississippi.”
Hear the steamboat’s whistles blow, and the river flows on.
A Friend’s Wedding
Too poor to afford a suit.
Wore what he had.
The jacket did not cover his wrists,
pants his ankles,
coat his anxieties.
