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Melissa Koe Nov 2014
The wind blew strongly. Out at sea, the fisherman’s small boat swayed in rhythm with the waves. He stood up and adjusted the sail, in case the wind blew it off. After so many years of earning a living as a fisherman, he has made peace with the sea – he no longer feels sea sick. Oh, but he feels a certain kind of sickness…… a different kind. His eyes filled with tears as he shifted his gaze from his worn out canvas sails to the horizon where the sun is just about to set. The sky above him is slightly orange – but is dulled by the gray of the storm clouds shifting in.

                He thanked the gods for the sky above and the sea below him, albeit the upcoming storm. He has recently lost his daughter, Fatema to the sea. His grief is still fresh, it still cuts deep. He lost his daughter to the tsunami that destroyed the fishing village. He has lost all his belongings – but nothing belonging to him will ever be as valuable as Fatema. Yes, grief makes him sick – and he has a good reason for that. When they found her, her body was trapped between five pieces of driftwood – it was a gruesome sight. How ironic is it? The arms of Neptune have always supported him throughout his life – making sure he earned a living and yet, the same menacing arms betrayed him and took Fatema away.

                For that, he was angry with the gods. How could they take away a life as easily as they gave it? He snapped out of his thoughts and raised the back of his hand to his eyes to wipe away the tears. His musings aren’t going to help. He has to begin sailing to find a shelter from the storm that is rolling in or else he won’t make it through the night. For the past week or so, he has been living in his small boat, making sure his stomach is full by fishing for small fish and crustaceans. He fixed his sail and began to sail in the direction of a small cove he is familiar with which will provide adequate shelter for tonight.

                As he sailed, he started to feel lonely. He reached his hand into his pocket and pulled out a locket with Fatema’s picture in it. He brought it to his face and gently kissed it, gripping it in his hand. As he sailed nearer the cove, moonlight began to illuminate the prow of his boat. When he is near enough to the shore, he skillfully measured the depth with sight alone, and lowered the anchor to make sure his boat remained in that position till dawn.
                As he descended from his boat, he waded through the water. Both of his arms are full of dried driftwood for him to start a fire tonight. He heard the distant sound of crickets and an owl. He walked toward the beach, heading towards a small cave and entered it. He checked the ground to make sure it was dry before he started a fire using the driftwood. The crackling of fire accompanied by the distant rumbling of thunder brought comfort to his ears. The flames that rose and vanished combined with the smell of the smoke left a silage – a lingering presence that soothed him. They reminded him of how he used to read stories of beasts and princesses alike to Fatema when she was a young girl until she fell asleep in his arms. Those days are long gone now. He stood up and headed back to his boat to set up the fishing nets for his meal later on tonight. He fixed the nets close to the shore before walking back to the cave to the warmth of the fire. He did not know what to do. He was supposed to sail back to the mainland by next week but the storm has been slowing him down. He listened to the rhythm of the waves crashing against his boat and drifted off to sleep……

                He opened his eyes. He did not hear any crackling from the fire nor feel the warmth from it. When he looked down, the fire has been extinguished. The moon was so high and bright now he only needed the fire for warmth. Just as he was about to stand up to fetch more wood from the boat, he heard a sound. Yes, there was a slight drizzle but it wasn’t the sound of rain hitting the sand. It was a soft, melodious voice which was….singing.
“May you sail fair to the far fields of fortune,
with diamonds and pearls at your head and your feet
and may you need never to banish misfortune,
may you find kindness in all that you meet.”

                It was the lullaby he sang to Fatema as a young girl. He began to feel excited and ignored the voice at the back of his head telling him he was insane. He looked out and saw her – Fatema, sitting on a rock. He called out to her and she looked back at him, saying something he has been yearning to hear from her – “Papa.” He was speechless and could not believe his eyes. She donned the black dress they found her in, but she barely had any scratches on her; she did not even look wounded. Instead of walking towards him, she flashed her sweetest smile and started walking towards the beach. She beckoned for him to follow her. He ran towards her, constantly calling out to her but she did not reply. She held out her hand for him to hold, and he did.

                One more step and she will reach the water now. “Fatema, what are you doing?” “Papa, just come along with me.” With those few words…..he felt like he was in a trance. There were so many questions running through the back of his mind but he ignored all of them. Was he hallucinating? He turned to his left as they waded nearer to the sea – the fishing net that he placed near his boat had a small crab in it. The moonlight that shone onto the sea reflected on her beautiful features – her curly, black hair and light brown eyes. With every step he took, he felt more nervous, confused, and excited at the same time.

                The water level is up to their chest now.  On the second day after Fatema died, when he was very much in pain, he made an analogy about grief by comparing it to the nearest thing to him. Grief is like the sea. It drowns you while everyone else is swimming. He felt more familiar towards it….. it did not seem as foreign to him anymore. If so, he is “literally” being consumed by grief as they waded deeper into the sea. He did not mind though – this is the story of a man who desperately wants his daughter back. He did not care if he was hallucinating or if she was a ghost. He does not know where she is taking him, but he wants to follow his daughter to who-knows-where; for to him, that is paradise, be it in the depths of the sea or the height of the skies.

                He can no longer see the moon.
An essay I wrote for English exam.
one hour write-up.
Melissa Koe Nov 2014
my heart is told by my mind
to always be kind
even in these tumultuous, soul-shaking times
the question is this:
dare I leave everything behind?
Minute micropoetry.
Which college should I go to? There is family to consider......sigh.
Melissa Koe Nov 2013
I tend to cry many a night
When things don't seem quite right

When hope, joy, and love
Bug me for a game of hide-and-seek
When all I want to do
Is drift off to a neverending sleep

I have many issues you see
And none of them are quite fixable by me

To the folks at home
Who are too engulfed by their pride
Why can't you see
I'm not taking in stride
I am sorry
I don't mean to disrespect
Only that you can't read my mind
(Will you please cut me some slack?)

To the father figure
I never had
You never called
Never asked
Never cared
(Where were you when things turned bad?)

Then when it comes to you
[My best friend, my lover]
I have to admit defeat,
Because although we're through
I am consumed with vorfreude when I think about you.

But indeed; you are right
By the unspoken rule we shall abide
The past and present shall not collide.
(Though you're still in my thoughts every night)


To everyone else
I respect,
cherish or adore
I apologize for being such a bore.
(And for using poetry as a vice)
[past tense]

This is raw, and not my usual style. I barely checked it for anything. Heck I think I made loads of errors. agh and it sounds stupid. Shall resume my normal style soon
Melissa Koe Jul 2013
it was a Sunday afternoon
when I walked across the park
there were already a dozen people
gathered at the house across

                                                         ­                         throughout the years, this park has seen my many roles

a lover, at age 16
                 gently caressing the hair of the boy I adored
a wife, at age 26
                 exchanging vows with the man I loved
a mother, at age 36
                 kissing the spot where my son had scratched himself

                                                        ­                                                                 ­           it was a Sunday afternoon
                                                       ­                                                   when Death took away the love of my life
                                                            ­                                           with his fleeting cloak and gleaming scythe

he was the love of my life
   when he was putting on my wedding ring
        or when he was cradling Jim
            and even when he walked out on our suburban dream

he had always been the love of my life
   and here I was
at age 46
in the park
the first time of my life when our roles had differed
     I, the widow
     and he, the dead man

                                                            ­                                                                 ­       it was a Sunday afternoon
                                                       ­                                      and it was one of the quietest Sundays I ever had.
Melissa Koe Jul 2013
my thoughts are lace
delicately i weave them
with a warm embrace
they greet me everyday
sometimes i would prefer not to
but they never listen anyway
they're always there
often a little too much
like lettuce in my chicken sandwich
or a buffet right after brunch
and sometimes they scare me
like the monsters under my bed
no matter how much i tell them
they won't leave my head.
Second poem, but first long one.
Melissa Koe Jul 2013
she held the gun in her hand,
a killer in the making.
This poem is about a girl who is sexually abused by her father. They got to a point where she was going to shoot him to make him stop, but she couldn't bring herself to do it (shaking). Well, she did it eventually.

This is my first poem - thus the length. Still an amateur. :)

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