Not all things are perfect,
I am aware of that,
But there are days where I cannot seem to get by
Without soft-breathing in exhaustion
An “Oh ****…”
Or giving a “******”
A talking volume
When few or none are around
To scold me with their ears.
What, haven’t you heard “***” outside
Of TV sitcoms before?
Or "****" aside from around a college campus?
I still get reactions when these words are overheard
From my lips,
Though it’s my life,
And these words have a recurring frequency.
These words are not only a stress-reliever
For someone like me,
But simultaneously a linguistic culture,
A communicative temptation,
Yet also having a dominating expression,
Commanding no only attention
But seriousness.
Fine, do what you want,
Hurl my soul to eternal shame and torture,
But a “curse-ed” day is like a chimney,
Letting out the smoke
Of energy that powers my motivation and forwardness.

Haiku 9

a push of culture
it is a finite circle
a pull of culture

Culture is like a tree
It has many branches
Its shape can change but you can still tell what tree it is
Interacts with surroundings
Absorbing light, air and nutrients
Synthesising and evolving
It can spread with its seeds
It can grow majestically tall and sky is its reach
But it can’t live
without its roots that stretch deep into the soil
Supporting the tree standing proud and tall
Culture is like a tree
People are like its roots -
The most important constituent of a tree.

“You’re a relic,” said the video game,
“no one reads you now.”
“Not true” said the novel. “And anyhow,
at least I have characters
who speak and think and feel.
No one could believe that your
“characters” are real.”
“I offer blood and action; an opportunity
to ****. We know that’s what the people want.
It’s a pressing need I fill,”
the video game replied.
“What makes you think your wars and crimes
played out in pixelation
will satisfy the players’ lust
for quick assassination? They will tire
of virtual gore and want to test their skills
in a real arena that offers far more thrills.”
The novel’s pages fluttered; she indignantly continued:
“In my world there’s ambiguity; it forces them to think
about how there’s no black and white,
except for pages and for ink.
My stories stir compassion,
reflection, empathy. Your crooks and soldiers all act the same;
where’s their personality?
You know you’re just a pinball game
dressed up as a cartoon.”
The video game tried to think
of how to answer back... But soon
it realized that she was right. And sadly thought about the terror
that it had wreaked from coast to coast
and how it was a grievous error.
It filled the bathtub up with water
and dropped itself straight in. And that, my friends, is where
this little story should begin.

A few years back
the winter was particularly harsh
and lasted for a long time
Sadly in my garden
Many perennials had died
But all the trees had survived

From then on when I look at a gracious tree
and admire its glorious green
I think of its roots below the ground
that I can't see but try to feel

This year we had "Beast from the East"
My garden was covered with two feet of white
And trees were bent by snow and ice
But I did not mind
As I know
When the weather is right
Trees will sprout again
and thrive