Semblance: Screens

A moth2 lies open and lies
 like an old bleached3 beech4 leaf,
 a lean-to between window frame and sill.
 Its death protects a collection of tinier deaths
 and other dirts beneath.
 Although the white paint is water-stained,
 on it death is dirt, and hapless.

The just-severed tiger lily
 is drinking its glass of water, I hope.
 This hope is sere5.
 This hope is severe.
 What you ruin ruins you, too
 and so you hope for favor.
 I mean I do.

The underside of a ladybug
 wanders the window. I wander
 the continent, my under-carriage not as evident,
 so go more perilously7, it seems to me.
 But I am only me; to you it seems clear
 I mean to disappear, and am mean
 and project on you my fear.

If I were a bug6, I hope I wouldn't be
 this giant winged thing, spindly like a crane fly,
 skinny-legged like me, kissing the cold ceiling,
 fumbling for the face of the other, seeking.
 It came in with me last night when I turned on the light.
 I lay awake, afraid it would touch my face.
 It wants out. I want out, too.

I thought you a way through.
 Arms wide for wings,
 your suffering mine, twinned.
 Screen. Your unbelief drives me in,
 doubt for dirt, white sheet for sill --
 You don't stay other enough or still
 enough to be likened to.

My Mom Only Had One Eye

She ran a small shop at a flea2 market and collected old clothes and some other things to sell for the money we needed. Once during elementary school, it was field day, and my mom came.I was so embarrassed and wondered how could she do this to me？I threw her a hateful look and ran out. The next day at school, my schoolmates asked me, "your mom only has one eye?!" and taunted3 me.

I was so angry with my mom and wished that she would just disappear from this world. So I said to my mom, "Why don't you have the other eye?! If you're only gonna make me a laughingstock!" My mon did not respond, I guess I felt a little bad, but at the same time, I felt so good to have had said what I wanted to say. Maybe it was because my mom hadn't punished me, I didn't think that I had hurt her feelings very badly.

For the words I had said to her earlier,there was something pinching5 at me in the corner of my heart. Even so, I hated my one-eyed mom and our desperate poverty. I told myself that I would become successful in the near future, so I studied very hard. Later I got accepted by the Seoul University, I left my mother and came to Seoul to study. Then I got married there.

I bought a house of my own. Then I had kids, too. Now I am living happily as a successful man. I enjoy the life in Seoul because it's a place that doesn't remind me of my mom and my past. This kind of happiness was getting bigger and bigger, until one day someone knocked at my door. It was my mom! And still with her one eye! It felt as if the whole sky was falling apart on me. My little girl ran away, scared of my mom's eye.

I screamed at her, "Who are you? I don't know you! How dare you come to my house and scare my daughter!" To this, my mom quietly answered, "Oh, I'm so sorry. I may have gotten the wrong address," and she disappeared out of sight.

One day, a letter regarding6 a school reunion came to my house. Lying to my wife that I was going on a business trip, I went back to participate in the reunion. After the reunion, I went down to the old shack7, which I used to call a house, just out of curiosity8. There I found my mom fallen on the cold ground. I did not shed4 a single tear.

Then a piece of paper in her hand came into my eyes. It was a letter to me.

My son,

I think my life has been long enough now, and I won't visit Seoul anymore. But would it be too much to ask if I wanted you to come to visit me once in a while? I miss you so much. And I was so glad when I heard you were coming for the reunion. But I decided9 not to go to the school…for you. I'm so sorry that I only have one eye, and I was an embarrassment for you.

You see, when you were very little, you got into an accident and lost your eye. As a mom, I couldn't stand watching you having to grow up with only one eye. So I gave you mine. I was so proud of my son to see a whole new world for me with that eye. I was never upset at you for anything you did. During the couple of times that you were angry with me, I thought to myself, it's because he loves me.

My son…oh, my son…

Don't cry for me because of my death. I love you so much.

Look What You Find along the Way

If you have ever been discouraged because of failure, please read on.

For often, achieving what you set out to do is not the important thing. Let me explain.

Two brothers decided1 to dig a deep hole behind their house. As they were working, a couple of older boys stopped by to watch.

"What are you doing?" asked one of the visitors.

"We plan to dig a hole all the way through the earth!" one of the brothers volunteered excitedly.

The older boys began to laugh, telling the younger ones that digging a hole all the way through the earth was impossible.

After a long silence, one of the diggers picked up a jar full of spiders, worms and a wide assortment2 of insects. He removed the lid and showed the wonderful contents to the scoffing3 visitors.

Then he said quietly and confidently, "Even if we don't dig all the way through the earth, look what we found along the way!"

Their goal was far too ambitious4, but it did cause them to dig. And that is what a goal is for-to cause us to move in the direction we have chosen; in other words, to set us to digging!

But not every goal will be fully5 achieved. Not every job will end successfully. Not every relationship will endure6. Not every hope will come to pass. Not every love will last. Not every endeavor7 will be completed. Not every dream will be realized.

But when you fall short of your aim, perhaps you can say, "Yes, but look at what I found along the way! Look at the wonderful things which have come into my life because I tried to do something!"

It is in the digging that life is lived. And I believe it is joy in the journey, in the end, that truly matters.

We Never Told Him He Couldn't

My son Joey was born with club feet. The doctors assured¹ us that with treatment he would be able to walk normally² - but would never run very well. The first three years of his life were spent in surgery³, casts⁴ and braces⁵. By the time he was eight, you wouldn't know he had a problem when you saw him walk .

The children in our neighborhood ran around as most children do during play, and Joey would jump right in and run and play, too. We never told him that he probably wouldn't be able to run as well as the other children. So he didn't know.

In seventh grade he decided⁶ to go out for the cross-country team. Every day he trained with the team. He worked harder and ran more than any of the others - perhaps he sensed that the abilities that seemed to come naturally to so many others did not come naturally to him. Although the entire team runs, only the top seven runners have the potential to score points for the school. We didn't tell him he probably would never make the team, so he didn't know.

He continued to run four to five miles a day, every day - even the day he had a 103-degree fever. I was worried, so I went to look for him after school. I found him running all alone. I asked him how he felt. "Okay," he said. He had two more miles to go. The sweat⁷ ran down his face and his eyes were glassy from his fever. Yet he looked straight ahead and kept running. We never told him he couldn't run four miles with a 103-degree fever. So he didn't know.

Two weeks later, the names of the team runners were called. Joey was number six on the list. Joey had made the team. He was in seventh grade - the other six team members were all eighth-graders. We never told him he shouldn't expect to make the team. We never told him he couldn't do it. We never told him he couldn't do it...so he didn't know. He just did it.

Ways To Turn Men Down

He: Can I buy you a drink?
She: Actually, i'd rather have the money

He: I'm a photographer. I've been looking for a face like yours.
She: I'm a plastic surgeon. I've been looking for a face like yours.

He: Your face must turn a few heads.
She: And your face must turn a few stomachs.

He: Haven't I seen you some place before?
She: Yes, that's why I don't go there anymore.

He: If I could see you naked, I'd die happy.
She: If I saw you naked, I'd probably die laughing.

He: How do you like your eggs in the morning?
She: Unfertilized.

He: I want to give myself to you.
She: Sorry, I don't accept cheap gifts.

He: Didn't we go on a date once? or was it twice?
She: Must've been once. I never make the same mistake twice.

The Clock

Hillary Clinton died and went to heaven. As she stood in front of St. Peter at the Pearly Gates she saw a huge wall of clocks behind him.

She asked, "What are all those clocks?"

St Peter answered, "Those are Lie-Clocks. Everyone on Earth has a Lie-Clock. Every time you lie the hands on your clock will move."

"Oh," said Hillary, "who's clock is that?"

"That's Mother Theresa's. The hands have never moved indicating that she never told a lie."

"Who's clock is that?" "That's Abraham Lincoln's clock. The hands have only moved twice telling us that Abe only told 2 lies in his entire life."

"Where is Bill's clock?" Hillary asked.

"Bill's clock is in Jesus' office. He is using it as a ceiling fan."

What would you say to grandma

My three-year-old brother had been told several times to get ready for bed. The last time my mom told him, she was very insistent. His response was, “Yes, sir!” since he was talking to my mom, we didn't expect him to call her “sir”.

“You would say, ‘Yes, sir!’ to a man. I'm a lady, and you would say ‘Yes, ma'am (madam),’ to a lady,” mom said. To quiz him on his lesson, she then asked him, “What would you say to daddy?”

“Yes, sir!” came the reply.”

“Then what would you say to mom?”

“Yes, ma'am!” he proudly answered.

“Good boy! What would you say to grandma?”

He licked his lips and said, “Can I have a cookie?”

How about one year olde

My bitthday past a couple days,and there is something what I thought.Among the main reasons for delaying in writing were poor of my English.

Age and Mind

As I was little,I would image how about was during the twentys.Life would be free,bright,and full of energy,and I would be independence,lovely woman,or anything could take control.but it’s opposite.I am disappointed in this situation for my life.

I don’t afraid get older at this moment,but I scare my mind doesnot match my age.No matter who you are,there are diverse characters to take you to act,and make you know how exactly about the life or about ourselves.I really know it isnot mature enough for me.So my age becomes a concept getting more and more special,and it’s hard to make words to express.The next year is the Chinese zodiac calendar which is the tiger,which is my year,and one cycle of my life.How to create a better cycle in my life becomes new topic.

Around me

Last weekend we,classmates of college,gathered again since graduation.What a nice gathering!Over the students’life nearly one year,some topic I always think about,just study,career,life,family,friends or even more.It’s perhaps no answers but the time.time will give the answers as long as it isnot too late.

Some changes have happened,about me,and others around.Perhaps it isnot only just by person themselves,but also by environment.and it is going on.Well,thank you everyone.Thank you for your wishes and presents.I am happy and feel warm.By the way,I take shame that I miss someones’bitthday or others else but who care about me.But I take all of these to my heart and try my best to do well.So…Thank you all the same.

In Ravenna

Three boys, old enough to hurt someone,
 young enough to think it doesn't matter,
 sat outside the small green plot I came to.
 Dante's grave. All of us pulled there,
 experiencing gravity, out of control
 for different reasons. I could not prepare,
 really, for facing this, just as these boys --
 smoking too deliberately, collars relieved
 like rose petals from the extravagant
 ceilings of basilicas -- could not understand
 their own indifference, or why they huddled,
 stared when I walked by. They were a type
 of beauty, as far as beauty is ignorant of itself,
 disdainful of place: that casual square,
 Franciscan facade, that entire city turning
 under the swelter of an afternoon, June
 in the marshlands to the east. Sometimes,
 I stand in front of history and feel nothing.
 Then, some wrecked mosaic, awkward
 in the transom of a secondary church, behaves
 just so, as if the artists thought of me and all
 my imperfections. Sometimes, people gather
 in the hearts of forgotten cities, and I hate them
 for their nonchalance（冷漠）, the terror in their boredom.
 They have been dying here for millennia, these boys,
 and there is little I can do, on this casual trip
 in the heat, map in hand, to guide them out.

Fit for Tat

Three boys, old enough to hurt someone,
 young enough to think it doesn't matter,
 sat outside the small green plot I came to.
 Dante's grave. All of us pulled there,
 experiencing gravity, out of control
 for different reasons. I could not prepare,
 really, for facing this, just as these boys --
 smoking too deliberately, collars relieved
 like rose petals from the extravagant
 ceilings of basilicas -- could not understand
 their own indifference, or why they huddled,
 stared when I walked by. They were a type
 of beauty, as far as beauty is ignorant of itself,
 disdainful of place: that casual square,
 Franciscan facade, that entire city turning
 under the swelter of an afternoon, June
 in the marshlands to the east. Sometimes,
 I stand in front of history and feel nothing.
 Then, some wrecked mosaic, awkward
 in the transom of a secondary church, behaves
 just so, as if the artists thought of me and all
 my imperfections. Sometimes, people gather
 in the hearts of forgotten cities, and I hate them
 for their nonchalance（冷漠）, the terror in their boredom.
 They have been dying here for millennia, these boys,
 and there is little I can do, on this casual trip
 in the heat, map in hand, to guide them out.

A Promise

Three boys, old enough to hurt someone,
 young enough to think it doesn't matter,
 sat outside the small green plot I came to.
 Dante's grave. All of us pulled there,
 experiencing gravity, out of control
 for different reasons. I could not prepare,
 really, for facing this, just as these boys --
 smoking too deliberately, collars relieved
 like rose petals from the extravagant
 ceilings of basilicas -- could not understand
 their own indifference, or why they huddled,
 stared when I walked by. They were a type
 of beauty, as far as beauty is ignorant of itself,
 disdainful of place: that casual square,
 Franciscan facade, that entire city turning
 under the swelter of an afternoon, June
 in the marshlands to the east. Sometimes,
 I stand in front of history and feel nothing.
 Then, some wrecked mosaic, awkward
 in the transom of a secondary church, behaves
 just so, as if the artists thought of me and all
 my imperfections. Sometimes, people gather
 in the hearts of forgotten cities, and I hate them
 for their nonchalance（冷漠）, the terror in their boredom.
 They have been dying here for millennia, these boys,
 and there is little I can do, on this casual trip
 in the heat, map in hand, to guide them out.

Types of Friends

Three boys, old enough to hurt someone,
 young enough to think it doesn't matter,
 sat outside the small green plot I came to.
 Dante's grave. All of us pulled there,
 experiencing gravity, out of control
 for different reasons. I could not prepare,
 really, for facing this, just as these boys --
 smoking too deliberately, collars relieved
 like rose petals from the extravagant
 ceilings of basilicas -- could not understand
 their own indifference, or why they huddled,
 stared when I walked by. They were a type
 of beauty, as far as beauty is ignorant of itself,
 disdainful of place: that casual square,
 Franciscan facade, that entire city turning
 under the swelter of an afternoon, June
 in the marshlands to the east. Sometimes,
 I stand in front of history and feel nothing.
 Then, some wrecked mosaic, awkward
 in the transom of a secondary church, behaves
 just so, as if the artists thought of me and all
 my imperfections. Sometimes, people gather
 in the hearts of forgotten cities, and I hate them
 for their nonchalance（冷漠）, the terror in their boredom.
 They have been dying here for millennia, these boys,
 and there is little I can do, on this casual trip
 in the heat, map in hand, to guide them out.

Snowdrop

Three boys, old enough to hurt someone,
 young enough to think it doesn't matter,
 sat outside the small green plot I came to.
 Dante's grave. All of us pulled there,
 experiencing gravity, out of control
 for different reasons. I could not prepare,
 really, for facing this, just as these boys --
 smoking too deliberately, collars relieved
 like rose petals from the extravagant
 ceilings of basilicas -- could not understand
 their own indifference, or why they huddled,
 stared when I walked by. They were a type
 of beauty, as far as beauty is ignorant of itself,
 disdainful of place: that casual square,
 Franciscan facade, that entire city turning
 under the swelter of an afternoon, June
 in the marshlands to the east. Sometimes,
 I stand in front of history and feel nothing.
 Then, some wrecked mosaic, awkward
 in the transom of a secondary church, behaves
 just so, as if the artists thought of me and all
 my imperfections. Sometimes, people gather
 in the hearts of forgotten cities, and I hate them
 for their nonchalance（冷漠）, the terror in their boredom.
 They have been dying here for millennia, these boys,
 and there is little I can do, on this casual trip
 in the heat, map in hand, to guide them out.

Little Red-cap (Little Red Riding Hood)

Three boys, old enough to hurt someone,
 young enough to think it doesn't matter,
 sat outside the small green plot I came to.
 Dante's grave. All of us pulled there,
 experiencing gravity, out of control
 for different reasons. I could not prepare,
 really, for facing this, just as these boys --
 smoking too deliberately, collars relieved
 like rose petals from the extravagant
 ceilings of basilicas -- could not understand
 their own indifference, or why they huddled,
 stared when I walked by. They were a type
 of beauty, as far as beauty is ignorant of itself,
 disdainful of place: that casual square,
 Franciscan facade, that entire city turning
 under the swelter of an afternoon, June
 in the marshlands to the east. Sometimes,
 I stand in front of history and feel nothing.
 Then, some wrecked mosaic, awkward
 in the transom of a secondary church, behaves
 just so, as if the artists thought of me and all
 my imperfections. Sometimes, people gather
 in the hearts of forgotten cities, and I hate them
 for their nonchalance（冷漠）, the terror in their boredom.
 They have been dying here for millennia, these boys,
 and there is little I can do, on this casual trip
 in the heat, map in hand, to guide them out.