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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Romance  |  House: Booksie Classic

A collection of poems about love, family and nature

Submitted: August 01, 2018

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Submitted: August 01, 2018





I am in love with a stranger.

At first sight, I loved his smile,

his white teeth gleaming beneath his red gum.

I wanted to give him a kiss at the stadium

brightened by spotlights.


He played football at our first date.

I saw his lean legs working on the field,

kicking the ball, shuffling to fool opponents.


I was reading a novel while catching a glimpse

of the game, eyeing the scoreboard.


At half-time, he came to me, drenched in sweats,

asking me if I was bored. He was still panting.

I said no, I am having fun.


I saw a couple riding on a motorcycle, with a woman

in the front seat, a man grabbing her waist. As she drove, 

I saw my date walking, his posture filled with pride.




I am jealous of the trees.

How green they look, 

how still.


They feed on the sun, moved by the wind,

showered by rain. Their weeds were yanked

by hands of a gardener. 


Each second it breaths in,

it grows. It never cares if someone cuts

them down.


Its branches are reaching up towards sky,

further up away from any human’s hand.


At night, it breaths out, releasing air

useless to our lungs,

unheard by our ears. 




One day my father is angry at me.

I called him a coward, a bully,

in front of my mother. I wanted to hurt him,

protect my mother. 


He picked up a knife, intending to kill me.

Or so I thought. I ran away. I was fast.


Then, he left the house, disappeared

for few days. When he came back, 

we didn’t speak, until my mother

knocked on my door and asked me

to apologize.




We haven’t the faintest idea

how memory works. 

I remembered living in a mansion

where I swore I never saw before

or lived in. Yet, it was real

to me. It was familiar.


I also remembered my father

searching for me in the market,

his eyes bewildered. I was looking

above him, like in dreams, like birds do.

He wears the white shirt he likes to wear 

for work, but now he is old, wrinkled,

his kind eyes weakened by diabetes.


See how tricky memory is,

how messy and jumbled.


I had never thought my father would be seeking

for my presence. It was no secret he hated me,

but is this really true?


I have loved my father my whole life,

and we used to hug and even though it felt nothing

emotional, it was real.




My mother has bad knees;

everyone is worried—a surgery is needed.


She sat in front of a computer at night,

and when I came in and asked for her help

with the printer, she grew angry.


Her knees were killing her, making her feel heavy, 

a burden to herself. She took medicine,

she did therapy.


Then, at 3 am or so, I woke up at the same time

as my mother did, and we cooked together;

I helped her making chillies paste 

and she taught me how to make it delicious.


She moved graciously around the kitchen

like an ice skater slaying a difficult routine.

She stir-fried veggies

with the blue lamplight glowing beside her.


Once she asked me if I can take care of her,

share her load, and I said yes, I can carry her

up over the hills, through the forest and storms.


I can die for her.

© Copyright 2018 Chatchaya. All rights reserved.

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