How the hell is she
Supposed to be powerful
In a world where power is diminished?

She’s brave.
She’s strong.
She’s fighting against herself.

She can only see
Her flaws and her weakness.
Will she be who everyone knows she is?

Powerful and happy,
Loving and magnificent,
The light of my life.

such a simple form
your fingers take
on this face of mine.

a sweet aroma,
thin
on my lips.

and their form,
of such brevity on the flesh,
on the scars still fresh.

Ok

Yes, it’s not all about love, or pain but surely it’s a metaphor for the depths of the halls we walk by ourselves amongst ourselves in order to confuse anyone that tries to wander too close to our hearts. Oh come on! Poetry is so pretentious.

To hide through rhythmic syllables, to share a sonnet with thee. To dedicate an entire repertoire of acoustic melodies in order to talk about her body?

Do not get me wrong, I love my fair share of dramatic soliloquies but it seems, to me that honesty has lost its value. Especially with writers. There’s no more truth anymore…no. It always has to develop into a complicated string of ideas. There was a time when writers were able to talk about a woman or lover or whatever, without invoking all the gods.

Learn how to love for what simply is

The darkness of secrets had kept me in shadows
The pain of the past had caused my family to weep
For they experienced life full of unjust woes!
Yet the Heavenly Lord has awakened me from sleep.

I hear the echoes of my forefathers’ voices,
They tell me to rise like the Mighty Sun,
It is time for me to wake and rejoice
On their legacy of what they have done.

The wise wind of fate pushes me to my destiny,
My blood burns with a new determination
As I am resurrected with a new identity
For my forefathers have impacted the entire nation

For many years I thought I was ordinary
Yet the cries of my ancestors beat like a drum-
Telling me to soar like a golden dragon.
In love and hate we have all endured and succumb

I give thanks to the heavenly divine sky
As he has given me a gift of armor made of courage.
“Awake my dear daughter”, the mighty Lord cry,
“Do not let the army of fear make you feel discourage.”

So the wind of destiny has revealed its plan
That I am to inherit their legacy,
Reclaim the throne and be the Princess of Han
For this is my destiny!

(c) 2018 Joanne Chang

High waisted jeans.
Converse with the colors faded,
Socks that are too warm.
Coffee that you forgot,
now it's too cold.
Goldilocks with a pixie cut,
but it's grown out.
And dyed red.

Joking about suicide but taking it seriously.
Alive on a bed with petals and thorns.
While autumn decays the terrace around to warn
you of the winter soon to storm through and
separate you from the torn.

His smile faded worse than your shoes.
And you spent a lot of time walking at night,
through puddles, trudging up dredged silt
and kicked loam
on your way half-buzzed to your apartment home.
It took a season longer for him to fade from bright
to held steadfast against the backdrop of vacuum
stagnant light.

He smells of sweat and sweetly crunched leaves.
Popular spice rub and sparkling water throat-feel.
Your jeans you bought with the holes in them are *****.
You'll wear 'em 'til you're thirty,
you're thrifty,
and frugal, but you still tip thirty percent per purchase spent.
Because you were in their black shoes once,
dressed shirt pressed and smiled to impress those
who spent less than you'd guess on their own tips back then.
Mid-20s and all you are is memories of nineteen.
A few more to even the score.

Yoga pants as pajamas. Pajama bottoms to class.
It used to be about the glances, and remarks.
Now it's about delivering yourself from the past.

You'll tip handsomely to the ugly people.
And nod your head with your chin bounce up,
in a show of recognition for the facade we all front.

You'll smile when most frown.
You'll rejoice amongst the vogue of cynics.
You will, because will is what does and you don't give up.
In a show of recognition for the facade we all front.

I see the stares
And I hear the whispers
I look at their faces
Sporting my blisters.

I hear the gasps,
And I see their faces,
And I see the confusion,
As they wonder if I am in pain.
As I lay flat on my back
With air wheezing from my lungs
A smile spreading across my face
And a laugh escaping from my flattened body.

I stand up, ready to fight
As I brace myself for another attack.
We glare at each other,
Sparks in our eyes,
And a grin on our lips
Wondering who will make the first move.

I step forward
And lay on the punches
Ready to receive them right back.
He grabs my arms,
Trying to stop my assault,
But we tumble to the ground
And both start to laugh.

People stare in awed horror
As I take a man to the ground,
And are in shock when I pin him with my knees.
They are gawk as we both stumble up laughing,
And their faces turn white as they see the bruises
That sprout along the length of my body.

I know I am aggressive,
I have never been a gentle girl
Always a warrior at heart
Ready to take down the biggest beasts,
And my bruises and cuts are my battle wounds
That I wear like trophies
Telling stories of my conquered foes
-ALC September 11, 2018