Rants and Rambles

"Why does Saigon never sleep at night? How can I feel good when nothing's right? Vietnam You don't give answers, do you friend? Just questions that don't never end."  These lines are in the song " Why, God Why? " from Miss Saigon, a musical that I've recently caught the bug off. Honestly, nothing feels better than relating to such a masterpiece in every aspect, from the settings to the emotions expressed by Chris, the character singing this song. Decades have passed since  the historical context of the musical, yet its atmosphere still lingers among the very corners of Saigon. The city never sleeps at night, with the roaring sounds of traffic, the bustles from street vendors, and the chattering night diners toasting their beers. Having been here for my entire life, I thought all this roundabout would never stop. I was wrong: this pandemic turned everything upside down. I need no magic carpet ride to see a whole new world, as it is enclosed within me ...

  *Poem originally published in ink Volume 3 (2020) of the Vancouver Public Library Trapped inside the four walls,  desperate for a wisp of fresh air  all motions  seem to halt.  The clock on the wall  in a haze of slumber.  snoring loudly with the  indefinite tick-tocks.  The dog-eyed book  sits still on the desk  wishing the characters would come out and talk about their days.  The wilted flower on the balcony  with its petal shriveled  bends its delicate neck  to contemplate  about the chats it once had  with the sparrows.  I take a snooze  on the flowery couch.  Dreams slowly passing in my head like a Kodak film tape. Humid dreams  about rain puddles by the sidewalk paper boats floating.  Cotton-candy colored dreams  tulips blooming in the spring breeze,  eight year old me delightedly eating waffle ice cream at a Dutch windmill.  Chalk-dusted dreams  ab...

 Originally published in ink Volume 3 (2020) of the Vancouver Public Library  One thirty  The scorching sun roams  A dusty wind blew by  The withering leaves In a haze of slumber  Students on wooden chairs  Cramped like anchovies in a can  Eyes drooling over the dusty chalk board  Waiting for the geography teacher to sum up his lesson  The words were dry and boring  Just like the Sahara Desert.  Front row kids  Drooping eyes in glasses  Straining all the attention  On the illegible chalk scribbles of the teacher  Middle row kids  Dismissively looking out of the windows  Now even a sparrow looking for worms  Seems intriguing  Back row kids  Heads on the thick textbooks for pillows  Longing for a quick nap. One thirty three  My fingers tracing on the marks of the desk Scars of the distant past  Maybe this carved sword sign was from the grade eight kid  Who has fri...