Thursday, 21 January 2016

Haiku Poem - Earthquake

Earthquake

All hell breaks loose when
It decides it's time- the ground
tears open, no mercy, no thought.


Sunday, 17 January 2016

Haiku Poetry - The Spider

The Spider 

Tangled in his death trap 
Screams and Shakes just brings him closer-
 A way of helpless death.


Wednesday, 11 November 2015

Forget-Me Not



I pick up my camera. I’ve already recorded half of our house.

People tell me it’s stupid. People tell me it’s useless. People tell me it’s a waste of time.


I ignore everyone and push on. I’m myself. Nobody tells me what to do.


Not today, at least.


I click the record button and slowly move the camera in a circle so I can catch the outskirts of the forests through the huge window, almost a door, as well as our now bare dining room. Through the criss cross of window screens, I can see out into our forest. A chipmunk rushes from one limb to another while comfortably holding a nut in its mouth. Its nose twitches as it smells something, and then it quickly darts to another limb. It’s all caught on tape. Another memory. Chipmunks.


I hear my mom shout.


“Are you still recording?”


“Yeah, gotta get every corner,” I reply.


There’s a pause and then she shouts back, “Take a break,”


“Nearly done,” I shout back.


The chipmunk takes my attention for longer than it should have. When I look down to the faulty camera, it’s turned itself off again. I let out a sigh. I know from experience that my clip is saved but nevertheless it takes some time to boot it back up again. I place the camera on our only chair left in the dining room. Well, technically it’s not much of a dining room anymore. This move- it’s changed things up a lot. For me, it’s reached inside my body, shook everything inside then left. I still feel hazy about it.


The chair makes me think about times from before. It also fills me with regret.


‘Why aren’t you coming with us?’ I think.


No reply.


I sigh, and relive old memories as I sink into its red velvet. It embraces me like an old friend- and it is, technically. As soon as the velvet makes contact with my body the scene changes. I sit and close my eyes. Inside my head is a party- in big bold letters there is ‘10’ written on a cake. I feel a tear sliding down as I see myself cut into the cake. My family cheers for me- I hear my sister telling me my age was now double digits. Everything is slow motion, like a clip. My birthday. It burns into my mind. ‘Happy,’ I think. ‘Happy, happy, happy…’ It echos.


And just like that, I’m back. I sit up.


I feel like I have to do something. Something to remember my home. My country. Strange, how it feels mine when it’s not my home country. The moments, the places, the things, almost like ingredients that made it up...


The cold, wooden floors. The fresh smell of dirt and trees in our forest. I can’t capture thoughts or smell with a camera. So I save at least what I see. That’s what I’m doing. Trying to record my home. More than that… Not just my home, but something more- a big part of my life.


To not forget. I forgot Korea when I moved to Denmark. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake again.


I pick up my camera and squeeze it so hard my knuckles turn white. I walk towards my room. The only one left for recording.


The cold touch of the wood makes me jump. It’s been long since our giant carpet was hauled away and I’m still not used to it. I had watched as the moving men rolled it up and shoved it into a box. I thought about the things that the carpet held. Chip crumbs, broken pencil lead- but mostly, my thoughts.


All now locked over layers and layers of paper and boxes. I hated boxes. It felt like they blocked out my mind. My ability to think, my ability to remember. Like a grumpy guard, it never let anything in, or anything out. It guarded thoughts, I guess.


Like any room in any home in Denmark, my room has a giant window, and under, a slab of marble to rest things on it. I slowly let my eyes slide over my tiny statues. There’s soldiers and horses but the one that catches my eye is a girl holding a handful of forget-me-not flowers. I slowly reach out and grab it. I hold on to the figure as I think,


‘It won’t be easy to forget here, my home, Denmark, but you, you please forget me-not.'


My eyes start to water. I’ve been getting used to that lately, unfortunately.


Back to the task, I tell myself. I got too distracted sometimes.


I finish the recording. The loud click of the camera comforts me. “INow I feel right… I’ve done something to try to remember Denmark. My home. It might not last forever but I’m still content. For now, I’ve recorded my memories. I’ll never let it go. Never let them loose.


I feel better, almost great. The little bits of guilt that poked me like a shard of glass are gone. It had been bothering me to sit and count down days until I’d leave Denmark for a long, long time- for the place where I had lived three fun-filled years, I felt like doing nothing for it was wrong. Maybe I was overreacting.


Anyhow, something I’ve done for my own misery seems to have helped me much more than I expected.


I smile as I plug the camera into my computer.

Sunday, 20 September 2015

Tiny Story of Resilience

It's pale face glowing with determination, resilience strode into the community. Bruises and cuts made him stagger but he knew he had to try one more time. As he approached the community he hooked it with hope and bliss. A smile spread on Resilience's face as he embraced it harder, stronger, to transfer his encouragement.

Friday, 4 September 2015

Depending on When You Met Me...


Depending on when you met me, I might have been the baby who would not stop drooling and had been unable to sit by himself, the kid who got a tic tac stuck up his nose, a YouTube Gamer, a window assassin (soccer balls helped), an obsessed cuber, a popular instagramer, an ant arsonist, or a sherlockhee. Which ones do you think I am now?

Tiny Story

The music embraced 
him as he leaned back in 
his chair. He seemed to flicker 
in and out 
of reality while
his head bobbed to the beat.