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A stranger does not share the monkey.

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The World Does Not Know The Way Out Of Its Own Death

The world does not know the way out of its own Death-
Nothing can stop it-
It may take a long time
Longer than we will be here to see
But nothing can stop it-

The world does not know the way out of its own death
Nothing does-

Its all going to be gone
Goodbye or no goodbye-

And neither you nor I
Can stop it.

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The Morning Light/ Does Not Remember The Night

THE MORNING LIGHT

The morning light
Does not remember the night.
It opens the day
It makes us want to live again
It says
The whole world is waiting there for us
If we will only walk out into it.

The morning light does not remember the night
It gives us hope again
God bless the morning light
And life which begins again each day.

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The World Does Not Wait/For A Poem It Will Never Listen To

THE WORLD DOES NOT WAIT

The world does not wait
For a poem it will never listen to
Silence is easy to bear.
My poem
Small as it is
Soft as it is
Shakes no great world to its foundation.
Little lines
Little lives
Great love
And it need not be registered at all.

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The Sadness Does Not End

THE SADNESS DOES NOT END/ THE DEATHS DO NOT STOP COMING

The sadness does not end-
The deaths do not stop coming-

If you want to be free of this
Do not grow old-
Do not know many people
Do not in fact be human-

The deaths do not stop coming
The sadness does not end-
How better to be young and mindless than old and full of so many memories of lost friends-

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The Child Who Does Not Recognize His Mother

when his mother comes
he does not utter the word mama
the mother tells him
Me, Mama, and hugs him
but he wrestles her away
he grabs a ball and throws it away
and he chases it
he falls on the ground
and shouts for help

his mother rushes to help him
removes the dirt from his shirt
and calms him down

then the boy utters the word at last
Mama
the mother smiles and kisses him

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Does Not Own

the garden does not own the crop,
nor does the tree own the leaf.
the night sky doesnt own the dawn,
clouds do not own the rain.
coyotes do not own the desert,
fishes dont own the seas...
only man is so foolish to think he owns,
what a sad state we're in!

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Fear Does Not Write Happy Lines

FEAR DOES NOT WRITE HAPPY LINES

Fear does not write happy lines-
Anxiety does not sing -
The soul is not uplifted
With the next medical test.

Life is a song
But it is not just a song-
Happiness is real
But it is not the only reality.

Now for the days ahead
The quiet fear and waiting
And the poem that becomes a troubling question.

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The Corn Harvest

Summer !
the painting is organized
about a young

reaper enjoying his
noonday rest
completely

relaxed
from his morning labors
sprawled

in fact sleeping
unbuttoned
on his back

the women
have brought him his lunch
perhaps

a spot of wine
they gather gossiping
under a tree

whose shade
carelessly
he does not share the

resting
center of
their workaday world.

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All that is Gold does not glitter

All that is Gold does not glitter
The sultriest of beauties carry thorns
The humblest little soft petalled jasmine
A feast for afternoon tea and sweet perfume
The best cut diamonds that glitter and shine
A molten rock culled from blackest coal
And the girl who just walked away with the first trophy
For best vocal, someone you would have thought a nobody

by john tiong chunghoo
inspired b y


All That is Gold Does Not Glitter
All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.

JRR Tolkien

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yes, what if God does not speak english at all?

you were not born yesterday
and probably heard it before

that if your God does not speak english
then he must not be God

of course, something arrogant
hangs in the air
of this effortless superiority that
'englishers'
'english-plongplangs'
clai m, which, of course, we
always oppose and dub
as prettry dumb silly

but anyhow, yes, we are asked again
what if?
what if, this God, does not really speak English?

well, of course, he is still God
and he must not have considered the english language
that important

and i agree, even if i speak it,
i still have this language
of my soul,

albeit, in english, for you,
who does not speak my own language,

yes, of course, for you to perhaps
understand,

but i like it though, this thought
that God does not speak
the english language, lest, he may sound

so englishly, oh well,
arrogant.....

dear God
do you really...not speak english?

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The Sun Does Not Shine Sometimes...

the sun does not shine
sometimes
paying respect
to the gloomy mood
of the day
when it rains and rains
till nighttime
and some of us who
are in the same mood
as a grieving earth
fully understand
the reasons for
a lamentation....

as we listen to the rain
and sit alone in a room beside
the window
somehow we are relieved
on that
great feeling that
we are not
alone in all these
tribulations

and then we cease
the sorrow
as we share a smile
to the passing wind
which too reminds
us

that everything
everything
sorrow or even joy
is simply
a passing...

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The World Today Does Not Need A Poem

THE WORLD TODAY DOES NOT NEED A POEM

The world today
Does not need a poem

It exists as it exists
Satisfied in itself
Happy, at peace.

It needs nothing
And wants nothing.

It is rich and easy
Bright and blessed.

The World today does not need a Poem,

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The World Does Not Need Another Poem Of Despair

THE WORLD DOES NOT NEED ANOTHER POEM OF DESPAIR

The world does not need another poem of Despair-
Complaint-
The world needs Kindness Joy Love Hope.

And who will give it to them?

Somewhere else young voices begin to be heard
While the old and sad fade away.

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The Poem Does Not Know What It Itself Means

The poem does not know what it itself means
It speaks to different needs and connections
Ambiguities are its essence
And questions its heart
When it is read silently
It is not the voice that reads it aloud-

All poems double their difficulties
In waiting for some new understanding
Yet underneath it all
On its surface
The poem is so incredibly clear
No one can mistake it for anything other
Than itself.

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If the Moon on the skies Does not Roam

If the moon on the skies does not roam,
But cools, like a seal above,
My dead husband enters the home
To read the letters of love.

He remembers the box, made of oak,
With the lock, very secret and odd,
And spreads through a floor the stroke
Of his feet in the iron bond.

He watches the times of the meetings
And the signatures' blurry set.
Hasn't had he sufficiently grievings
And pains in this word until that?

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The World Does Not Need My Poem

The world does not need my poem
Soon it will not need me-
A few people need me,
They will need me when I am not here-
I will disappoint them by not being here-
It is the last thing in the world I want to do
To disappoint the few who really matter-
But what to do?

I am just another human being
Another mortal on this earth
It is not given to me,
What is not given to anyone else
Even though I so much want it.

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There Are Times When The Sun Does Not Shine

who argues
about the rainy days
when the sun
does not shine
like a child hiding
on the skirt
of her mother

who disputes
lean times
and hungry days
when we simply
bite our tongue
swallow our saliva
and say we
just had lunch

when this happens
we can do nothing
we let all these times
come and then wait
when they finally leave

for like the sun that
does not shine today
tomorrow it may come
and shine again so brightly!

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A Poem Whose Meaning The Poet Does Not Know

A POEM WHOSE MEANING THE POET DOES NOT KNOW


A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Is a question only its readers can answer.
But if in the silence of endless absence
There are no readers
A poem whose meaning the poet does not know
Becomes a poem which does not exist.
And a poem which does not exist
Is not the poem the poet dreamed
When he heard in the night or the early morning
That rush of music that sequence of sounds
Which seemed to say more than he would ever understand
As he wrote it down in haste
For fear it somehow would be lost.

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The Future Is In Deep Sleep And Does Not Bother....

i look back
(with minor regrets)
a life unedited
asking for some
corrections

i look back again and again
i can do more than this and that
it could have been something else
i could have been someone
more enlightened

i look back
it has become one bad habit for me
until i bump
a wall and it hurts my face
awakens me

it is this present this wall
this soundless pain
this complacency

too much of the past
i know, emaciates the present
on slipping hours
on hands with leaks
on dimming lights
on lazy afternoons and
colder nights

the future in deep sleep
does not bother.

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The Monkey In The Neighborhood....

i love that
monkey

it asks food
from me
and when given
it hides
it all inside his
mouth
tongue-in-check
if you have
seen it

and then it asks
some more
begging
like a pitiful
child
without a mother

and if begging
does not work
it charms you
with its tiny hands
its fingers
mapping for
lice
in your hair
while its tail
tickles
your armpit
you feel that
and remember
something before
when you
were once
as young & horny as
that imaginary
gazelle

it is this
begging game
that you like most

you are not
a monkey

stop it

it does not
look good for you

you lose your charm
and even the monkey
thinks
that by imitating it
you have
become detestable.

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