70.5 F
Hacienda Heights

Kristine Chang

The Buddhist

The lady wearing white sits on a swing,
A melody, she starts to hum and sing.
A heavy fume of incense blows my way,
I stare at her, her eyes the color grey.
The wooden strand of beads for chanting falls,
Around her neck and on her silky shawl;
“May all your sufferings end with love and peace”
Her clear-cut words of wisdom never cease.
She brought compassion to my inner soul,
And always had a brass-made singing bowl.
The lady wearing white sits on a swing,
A holy melody just like a dream.

Poppies and Roly Polies 

A trail of ants pass through the empty cracks.
The smell of fragrant blossoms fill the air,
Her breath, so mild, gave life to new-born souls.
This lane that leads to memories from the past.
Small poppies of all colors meet and grow,
A splendid view of colors pass my sight;
My curiosity grows like the buds,
Not plump enough for eyes of youth to care,
About the unripe poppy pods of seeds.
Back then, I’d try to free the raw capsule
By peeling its protective outer layer.
A few steps down and thoughts appear in mind,
How is it that the plants create such color?
Or life itself, creates a blissful wonder?
I walk in silence, my head is hanging down,
Until I see a bunch of rolly pollies.
A strange, young girl was I when I had reached
Beneath the grass to collect a dozen more.
Before I knew it I had brought them home
Not knowing they’d be dead before sunrise.

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