One Hundred Words A Day

Money Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Wed, 03 Dec 2014 21:45:00 +0000

I fold for you an origami heart
from a twenty-dollar bill
My fingers like ten love struck souls
travel through valleys and mountains
searching for petals and kites
in Jackson crease lines
until I find for you a tender heart
even in Jackson
the murderer of Cherokees.

I fold for you a heart of origami
filled with black prints on reused papers
my unfinished short story
gone wrong, no purpose
with beautiful sunsets and a love ending in marriage
my heart for you a repurposed heart
hoping to be useful.

I Wonder

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Mon, 24 Feb 2014 19:07:00 +0000

I wonder had I a million dollar to spend
could I buy all the books at author signings
for Charlotte, and Libby, and Tim (when he would print one)
and Naomi, and Sherry, both, and Michael before he died
books of memoir, poetry, human conditions, and murder mystery...with love in the spring.

Had I a billion hours a day
Could I spend them the way I totally see fit
gazing out my window for inspiration and wit
driving aimlessly to the tune of 91.5 up a hill
though I know I should spend more time running to nowhere on some treadmill.

Had I the ability to retain all words
English, French, Chinese, Vietnamese
I would not be so confused when they arrive at random
in my mind, refusing to leave
I would put them into their right places, this one for family, this one for work, this one...mine.

I wonder if Rachel Carson was more than right
that not only the earth's spring is silenced
but also its rain
why there hasn't been a drop of water since last April
why my skin feels so dry, my yard so dead.

I wonder if not only I arrived from Asia
but also the citrus aphids, female and petite like me
I know I'm good for America
although the aphids are not
I had failed by boat, the aphids too, until they soared on wings like me.

I wonder what all I would achieve
with one more life
love more, write more, study and be excellent at everything
from science to literature
dance the ballet, draw, paint, cure diseases, invent a universal language
that unites Vietnamese, French, English, Gujarati, Chinese, Arabic, and music.

But no point sitting here wondering
since I only have one life
limited money, a wit scattered by many languages
a heart too impatient to wait for perfection
I better write, one word at a time,
type, two fingers at a time
until my wondering somewhat coalesces
into sentences, paragraphs or verses,
into books.

To Ai Wei Wei

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Mon, 27 Jan 2014 21:21:00 +0000

Break for lunch
a cup of tea
and Ai Wei Wei

Break for thought
Blogful of words
signed Hong-My..

Four Letter Word

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Wed, 22 Jan 2014 18:25:00 +0000

That four-letter word
doesn't belong in print
although in reality
it is
so does excrement
but you don't smear it all over your page
Do you?

Upon Reading William Safire's "On Language"

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Mon, 06 Jan 2014 19:52:00 +0000

Ducking is a gerund
a gerund: a verb-noun.

not to confuse with "Ducking,"
used as participle,
a verb-derived word,
to describe the act of "Ducks"

Pregnant

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Mon, 06 Jan 2014 18:49:00 +0000

I think I'm pregnant with ideas

there's the possibility of life within

there's the possibility of a better future

of renewal, hope, redemption of sin.

I think there is a possibility of return

of movement and intervention

the highway of life to death continues toward

infinity: no dimension. It's really not my invention.

I think since to everything a season

it's time I let go

there isn't need for a reason

I won't see you in the morrow

Forgetfulness - Billy Collins

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Sat, 13 Apr 2013 23:27:00 +0000

Cha Cha Cha

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 28 Mar 2013 04:45:00 +0000

To the Periods

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Mon, 24 Sep 2012 20:22:00 +0000

To the period: like a door in your face

A slam, a bam that says, “No more, I’ve had enough.”

On this side I catch my breath,

thankful for the barrier.

To the comma with possibilities,

Who slows me down for longer runs

Who clarifies who’s first, second, and last

Who’s doing what, when chaos seems abound.

To the semi colon; one more chance

whose ambivalence gives thought to life

status to the experts

competition to periods and commas.

To the question mark, curling there pregnant with demands,

Need you ask?

You know…life has no answer

The bottom drops off when one thinks one knows.

To the ellipses, like you

I hesitate,

Suspended…dangled mid-sentence

between right and wrong.

To the exclamation point,

Command!

Shout!

Cry!

Let your feeling out!

To the colon:

Here is my list,

and my quotation.

Your polite, yielding nature makes things easy between us.

To the brackets

Not sure if I should nail you to a door

To be used as hinges

Instead of separation for major explanations, or filling in words assumed to be correct.

To the parenthesis

A pout or a smile, which one are you?

Both (an inseparable pair),

you said?

Dashes, you also

Are walls for inserts, for listing too? Amazing!

No?

Really…you are m-dash, and she is n-dash, better named as a hyphen

Oh…you unite, hook up two words, and makes them one, like pseudo-legitimate.

You aren’t related. How should I know!

The backyard Bully

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 26 Apr 2012 20:41:00 +0000

He looks at me with lizard's eyes

with raised torso on serpentine shape

he chases his mate up and down my yard

my path he blocks...yet I escape.

Because I Write

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Fri, 06 Apr 2012 14:02:00 +0000

Yesterday I felt like crap
Like Sylvia Plath's head in the oven.
Today I'm all sun
I'm Emily Dickinson
because I write.

Yesterday I was a worthless bag
bones about to crumble
Today I'm all spirit
moving through air.

Yesterday I was all madness
Plato spoke to me:
"You are inspired, daughter,
Garner your Muse's divinity and embrace Eros."

I've lost it and then regain
that essence of me
that contracts and expands
like the inhale exhale of sea.

when it's giddy and gay
I feel better
I can face anything
Sticks...stones? I am stronger.

Anybody Wounded?

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Tue, 03 Apr 2012 15:38:00 +0000

Kill the classroom budget
Kill the student's dreams
Kill the students
Killing: our nation's theme.

He walks home from Grandma's
with graduation in mind
Pow, pow! Now he's dead
A black downed by a brown.

Now in Bizarro's comics
two teams face one another
the bros against the homies
Ball aimed at basket, bullets on all others.

He comes from Korea
His gun bought in America
He's mad at his old Ma
for wanting a doctor-son, so "voila!"

Seven dead, three wounded
Swat teams swoop down,
guns drawn, "Anybody else wounded?"
"I!" My spirit bled, shot, shocked, more than wounded.

Cột

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Tue, 31 Jan 2012 17:34:00 +0000

Chàng cười cùng cái
chỉ cột chịu chưa
cột chống cầu cao
Cưới cho cô cỡi

Cái cười cùng chàng
chưa chịu cắn câu
Cột cong cu co
chức cao chưa có

Cắm cổ chàng cầu
Cầu chức chóng cao
cầu cu chớ còi
cầu cái cho cưới

Các cậu chừa chưa?
Chớ cười châm chế
Cần câu cậu cụt
chắc chắn cô chê

News Headline

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 22 Sep 2011 04:38:00 +0000

"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.

Poetry Night

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Sat, 06 Aug 2011 00:58:00 +0000

My Son Diya

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Tue, 31 May 2011 19:47:00 +0000

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

2011 Literary Orange

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Sun, 08 May 2011 19:51:00 +0000

This close to touching heaven

and all the fun

of being published.

Upon Listening to Joan Didion's "The Year of Magical Thinking"

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Fri, 08 Apr 2011 04:43:00 +0000

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.

A Dream Within a Dream - Edgar Allen Poe

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 31 Mar 2011 17:14:00 +0000

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?

Purge

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Sun, 20 Mar 2011 19:46:00 +0000

I've always wanted to know who I was
as a young girl,
and gravitate toward my childhood
in order to discover
what I really am
under the carcass of a woman.

Little scraps of paper
a broken ring tissue-wrapped
black-and-white photographs
and, if I could, a page of diary
in that childish flowery imitation of an adult's scripts.
They are nowhere to be found.

The tsunami of time, and the quake of a revolution
had taken my past with it.

And the life rebuilt, year by year re-edified
Memories: hours by hours accumulated
old notebooks, copies of receipts, movie ticket stubs
They are my scrapbooks
that per chance might hold the essence of my soul,
Now and then heartlessly purged
by one who never experienced a painful loss.

Into the black bin,
the monstrous, smelly bin
caked with food scraps
All that could have been.

The footprints of a youthful dream
for the tired adults
to match
The over-sized feet
and remember
This is who I supposed to be.

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

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Wed, 26 Jan 2011 19:35:00 +0000

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.

The tip of the iceberg

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Mon, 24 Jan 2011 03:39:00 +0000

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

Mountains

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Fri, 14 Jan 2011 01:36:00 +0000

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.
rolling,
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.

Westbound

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Thu, 30 Dec 2010 02:35:00 +0000

By mistake I veered right
and took the bifurcation to the west
instead of east
and in front of me was the dead sun
when I went to it.

Heck the Hall!

noreply@blogger.com (Hong-My Basrai) — Tue, 14 Dec 2010 18:23:00 +0000

I am cleaned floor, washed dishes and folded laundry.
I am the busy hands.

Should I continue?
to be just good for cooked meals,
well-warmed and pliable in bed
Is it my lack of courage?

I am a muted spirit, with dwarfed dreams and sabotaged inspirations.
I am useless without a mop, elbow-deep in detergent, folding my life in the grease of expectation.

Heck the hall!
It is my season.