Rants and Rambles

"All the leaves are brown..."   Ramshackles chained beneath the sky Freeing us from the currents of life To return to the blissful moments of childhood, Where rollercoasters of memories are rife.  The motions thrust the obsidian-colored seat Up high then down to the grass, where the blades sweep Gently under the shoes, like the tales from the past Comforting us during the times we weep. Rock to the rhythm of your time Like the pendulum, swinging in perptuality. As long as the crisp fresh air, the dancing dandelions Are under your feet, you are free. Thumbnail photo: I couldn't find a picture of the swings in the nearby elementary school in springtime so here's a photo of what they'll look like in a few months. Ah, just imagining how fresh the air will be does cool me down a bit as I'm typing these words during a humid night in Saigon... Anyway, this is a poem I wrote in grade 12 AP English class that I waited three years to post because why not. There w...

Once upon an afternoon, we reunite under the fried ube cart in Saigon It was a two-story house,  facing the street facing District 11. Built too late for colonial romaticism, but too early for the age of glass frenzy. Pinwheel patterns on the brise-soleil catch the fierce tropical sun, leaving behind the shadow that long to be broken. The pinwheels see the resin trees rise and fall when the neighborhood was choked  under the grip of the city's expansion. The pinwheels peep down the streets. A car adorned with plastic flowers,  a wedding in procession  heads to the house across the street. "Look, there's the bride!" the children in the alley echo. A VHS tape rewinds as it did thirty years ago, when the youngest daughter— the last child growing in this house— married her Vietnamese American husband carrying with her six people's dreams, across the ocean. And all is left within the walls, is the moss growing quietly on the cracked plaster.  Even the sparrows don'...

Long time no see! Regions divided by folds, undulating like waves in a river Flowing past ancient kingdoms. There holds the brain. Crisscrossing neurons ignite Electrifying fireworks along the river’s edge! Cargos of neurotransmitters spark Docking on synapses, ferrying signals To the most infinitesimal corner of the kingdom. The river of mind knows only one direction. No beginning. No end. As the river ebbs and flows Memories form, dissolve, return A first kiss, a glimmer of sunlight, twinkling eyes Emotions surge beyond the surface Riding the tide of time. And when the time comes, all things will fade, The last sparks tremble Nightfall. A silent explosion of stars. The final ship drifts onto the shore, Sinking into the deep. Thumbnail photo : Crossing the Fraser River by the Canada Line on a sunny morning. This is a poem I wrote to perform at UBC Science Coffee House, where I got to meet the Dean and Associate Dean and other amazing artists and poets in my faculty! We performed music...

  Originally published on The Ubyssey My mom is packing a suitcase before her 23-hour flight to Vietnam. The smooth rolling of its wheels intertwining with the staccato rhythm of duct tape echo through the quiet house. Her veinous hands organize the items like an engineer assembling the ins and outs of a teleporting machine carrying capsules from this portal: five packs of musky-scented Eagle oil (for senior relatives constantly battling with arthritis) two bulky boxes of chocolate (for the innumerable nieces, nephews, grandnieces, grandnephews and beyond) and plastic-wrapped bottles of lotion and shampoos (for their mothers, sisters and aunties). The destination label lying neatly on the sleek surface The stretches of words, diphthongs and diacritics — enigmatic codes carrying the traveller to a bustling street in Saigon, with motorcycles trickling down the narrow lanes alongside which warps the smoky grilled meat from vendors, all within the humid city, pulsating day and night. I...

  Just a poem reminiscing about the summer of 2022, when my grandpa made his first trip to Canada all the way from Vietnam to visit my family. I will always remember how he was in awe of everything around him - the lush fields on Lulu Island, the cool in, and the grass carpet behind our backyard. The poem is now published on ink magazine 2023 , my fourth and last contribution to the magazine since 2020.  My grandpa sleeps on the ivory-colored couch After a long flight from Vietnam. It’s a summer midafternoon, The day is crisp-yellow, soaked with the honey sun through the emerald foliage. Grandpa reclines on the backrest, where The creases of age reflect into his eyes. His breathing becomes synchronized With the wavering of breezes and the rustle of the leaves. Just as the pinkness of dusk is about to fade, when the cumulous clouds scatter Further than the withered rose petals on the front yard Grandpa wakes up and beams, the crinkles in his eyes Shine as he contemplates That h...

  In a corner, quietly stands a cherry blossom tree With fuchsia blossoms slowly unfurling Above the waves of passengers huddling in line for the bus, never ready For a moment of repose. A flicker of the sea breeze Comes, undulating the cumulous pink clouds That stretch far away to the snow-capped mountains. Slowly I tread on the carpet of green grass, fearing that I may trample the delicate pink petals underneath On my way home. My sister and I call them specks of spring dust, so dazzling but fleeting, as they could withstand only a few days of rain. Then the colours blemish, the petals floating away below the leaden skies. With spring comes jubilation, but also a wisp of nostalgia. I heard of a movie long ago About two soulmates trying to reunite As they crisscross the globe, at the speed of cherry blossom petals: 5cm/s. When I first learned this, my science-cogged brain Could not fathom that the speed of cherry blossom petals Can be quantitate...

The city sleeps in its hazy blanket. Under the snow-capped mountains, The cherry blossoms flutter. Their fuchsia wings Descend onto the shoulders Of hectic passersby, boots inked with mud To catch the nearest bus. The windows reflect the matchbox houses That fling away with the spring breeze. Back seat, nestled among the bulk backpacks, I open my book. A flip Breaks the silence of the bus As it travels uphill and down to the misty ocean that undulates along the dog-eared pages, where the primly printed lines unfold the stories that have never been told before the spring days of Vancouver. Thumbnail image: Cherry blossoms in Richmond, taken on one of the rare sunny days.

A small delight on a red-eye flight from Tokyo to Vancouver - whoever knows that a paper cup of ice cream can teach you life lessons? There are many reasons that people can't sleep on a flight: One, the mere reason that we are floating in the middle of nowhere inside a gigantic metallic vestibule thrusting everywhere clinging onto nothing. Two, the overloading of the senses: the whizzes and hums from the engines the flickering on and off of the halo reading light from that insomniac passenger the intermittent cracking of the pilot's voice over the intercom the air prickling under your skin the arid bitter clump in your throat the potpourri of stale bread, clothes, and perfume all churning into a thick blanket suffocating you to the very core. Three, you toss and turn in your juice-stained hoodie, hoping to have a nanosecond of rest but all was in vain and you think how draining it is  to be packed more than in a sardine can, up ten thousand feet  while down the gentle ground, ...

 Originally published in  Pluvia Literary Magazine , Issue IV (October 2022) In the strawberry field, no one is worried. The sky is crisp azure, as if nothing could stop it from being so. The stretching beds embrace the horizons with their sweet kisses of tender strawberries Their after-kiss fragrance lingers in the air, filled the chickadee’s jubilant songs to harken the advent of summer.   In the strawberry field, no one is worried. Little kids run around barefoot, their plump fingers clutched with a bucketful of crimson sweetness while their parents, tucked in crisp denim and flowing floral dresses, gaze adoringly at their exuberant enfants. The flashes from cameras overshine the sun, glittering the sparks of asphalt on the country road.   In the strawberry field, no one is worried. Alas, I wish I could be so! Summer has come, yet my thoughts do not have wings to soar out of the reality entrenched deep into my soul, about wh...

A wild sunflower in the afternoon Grows under the crisp blue skies Two colors, azure and gold Dazzlingly intertwine. Afar, bronze oak leaves crumble  Scattering sun-streaked blades of grass That flutter as the wind rustles Through the laden apple tree. I pack my bag and head Towards the blackberry vines Near the railroad watershed  Where the cobalt ducks wallow. A duck waddles on the mud Passing the shady reeds Raspily asks me if I should Continue on my path. To which I replied by A ripe plump blackberry  With a wide beaming smile, "How far is the end?" --- En la tarde, un girasol Crece debajo de los cielos azules Los dos colores, azul y oro Se entrelazan espectacularmente. Allá, las hojas de roble se desmoronan Despersando el pasto  Que se agitan mientras el viento cruje Por el manzano cargado. Empaco mi maleta  Hacia las vides de mora Cerca la vía férrea donde Holgazanean los patos cobaltos .  Un pato camina en el barro Pasando los juncos sombreados Me pr...

Originally published in Pluvia Literary Magazine, Issue III (July 2022).  A video of me reading this poem can be found here , performed  in the blazing Saigon August. Obsidian sky, Pacific cold snaps Glaze backyard grass and graze frontyard glass. Nightlamp’s soft glow, fireplace roars, I slide my fingertips across the keyboard, lingering on the ivory tabs.   Yet, the keyboards are jammed, and melodies are entangled Like laugher trapped in clenched teeth as the cold pricks. So I turn to A minor staccato , then accelerando A tribute to crystalline birches and snowy rail tracks.   The notes, joining hands together Fly from their long-captivated residence, the barred staffs, And swing up and down to dance away the night Along with the flurries outside.   Forte notes following horse footprints in the sunset become decrescendo when reaching snow-clad hamlets with smoking chimneys. Sharps and flats mingle exquisitely as snow an...

Behold. The unknown expanse stretching, vaster than the universe. No bubbling elixirs of life. Vestibules, light-year distances, nor glorious civilizations on dusty planets. Leave those visions for illustrations, of sci-fi novels, Hollywood, and over-optimistic scientific machinations. They are nothing,  but fragments of our daydreams. Concocted from a latent corner of the hippocampus, the same place of alchemy’s, telepathy, and astrology’s origin. What is to happen lies in the hands of the infinitesimal. Specks of dust that sleep on the shoulder of life. The sparkling eyes of a child upon touching the alabaster page of a book, the cradling hands of a mother bringing her baby for immunizations, the steaming pots of dinner after a day of hard work. They are real, felt and cherished, Seen, by every single one of us, while marching: Towards the Future. Thumbnail photo : My cousin and I on a basket boat ( thúng in Vietnamese), aiming for the ocean in Quang Ngai Province, central Vietn...

  The literature that I’ve read is a motley of hues of life. Give me a palette, and I will pinpoint it on the exact two ends: the light and dark. Lyrical eulogies, a lament to the iridescence of life whispering passed by, whether it is a tribute or a tirade for the bygones. In the dog-eared poetry collections that I once upon a rainy afternoon perused through,  there were eulogies full of mythical maidens vanishing under the mist, tributes to the gilded age of fleeting togas under the honey-streaked sun and recalls of the tranquil noons spent under sylph-like tree branches under which Dionysus’ saccharine stream of wine flows past the blood-red hyacinths. There were also torments where the wind thrashes so hard that the glimmer of the candle beside the quilt pen barely flickers, the scribbles scratched in the dinginess of a confined cabin aboard a rocky ship amidst the vast ocean, or the stanzas of exasperation during a murky winter night and with the withering heat of t...

golden flecks of treasure, bits of sunshine brought home from April morning by the dewy grass where the stream running by soft beds, the misty air, and twirling cedars cheer for a bountiful catch – all worth for the backache. a run to Walmart in the mud rewarded with lofty mountains of salt ready to be drizzled onto the latticed layers of exhausted aquatic residents crisscrossing between the waters of the Atlantic now find a good rest into a capsule, this crystalline glass vase nestled under the pantry. silvery eyes linger at the steaming dishes from the kitchen, where Mom is slicing red chili pepper and drying them under the very sun, half the country away. while Olympics athletes yearn to change bronze into silver I crave to see the vase changing its shade, from silver to bronze. plump layers withering with hypertonic cells, an osmosis of seconds or probably patience seeping in. Did three years pass? Alas! the specks of amber-colored goodness flowing down the cheesecloth, leave behin...

Originally published in  ink Magazine  of the Vancouver Public Library Around the streets at night on a Honda moped helmet strap tight on chin the river breezes blow the dusty leaves of the resin trees along District 1. Standing like solemn guards of the city, they watch over empty food stalls with their owners in a haze of slumber on the Formica table, beside the bubbling hủ tiếu broth. The leaves drop a pitying gaze to the night street sweeper sweeping trash from the narrowest alleys with cracked-painted houses no more than six feet wide to the main streets shimmering under the lights of caviar-scented, gold-latticed hotels with red carpet imprinted rose pumps. The branches don’t wince when they watch over a rat scurrying under a heap of boba tea leftovers and fried fish balls dripped in MSG-filled soy sauce left on the grass not far from the Gucci glass showcases of Diamond Plaza. The petals of resin flowers don’t wilt immediately upon landing on a sweaty uniform shirt belo...

Originally published in The Peahce Project. my mother has a rice bowl  passed down from her grandparents. not the typical delicate porcelain bowl,  hand painted with dainty dragons and flamboyant fairies  that should only be displayed in a glass case.  the bowl is just a simple wooden bowl, with cracks at the bottom where the 9 and 6 in the year 1960 has faded away  from the sun and rain and hurricanes  of history.  the bowl was with my grandfather when he returned from the North back to his hometown 200 miles away. the wood was still fresh, with the musky scent of the ebony glimmering in the Central sun and grain patterns curving like waves of the river across which my grandfather tried to swim twice  on his way fleeing from the war. the inside was filled with mushy cassava along with some adlay grains of days of stumbling in the jungles but also with blood and tears of happiness  from seeing his family again. the bowl was with my mother whe...

 *Shortlisted poem for the 2020 Page by Page contest, organized by the Vancouver Public Library There is a cedar outside the window Towering over maples and oak trees . I wonder if it feels any sorrow Because the blue sky is all it can see.   No, the cedar is not lonely at all With fragrant leaves twirled like fingers . In summer, the warblers enthrall The musky branches with songs that linger.   At dawn, the succulent stems gleam When the sun engulfs them in golden rays. Night falls, the cedars withers its leaves and dreams Of the melodies the sea breezes serenades.   But have you ever noticed the trunk Stained with dark flowing resins – its tears From the spots that have seen cedars struck By roaring chainsaws all over the years?  

  *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...

 ** A poem dedicated for travelling memories, before the days of lockdowns and empty airports.** Beyond the walls As I zipped the last suitcase and headed to the airport, an exciting word awaited where adventures never fall short.   Summer nights in Pattaya gazing at the ethereal lights while the night breeze caresses the sunkissed skin and palm trees whisper good-night.   Rainy days in Melbourne watching raindrops roll down the car window like liquid pearls. The scent of curry pizza lingers as the salty wind hurls.   Scorching mornings in Grand Canyon where falcon wings roam The sun rises with all its glory above the observation dome.   As I yearned before the four walls, an inundation of wanderlust engulfed entangled memories with nostalgia bubbles preparing to burst.