Poetry Mondays – Cat’s Tongue by Ryan Fu

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man-at-oceansea

I stand across from you


in our tiny studio apartment

letting the silence fill up the space

as I wonder what happened to us.

We used to be inseparable,

but now we’re ghost, haunting each other

waiting on faith like Jack and Rose

onboard the Titanic.

I wonder if one our cats could talk,

what they would say?


They probably would say what we were

too scared to say.

That this is over.

There’s no going back.

You can’t put a Band Aid


in a gaping hole. 

So, I stand across from you


in our tiny studio apartment.

Between us an ocean of unhappiness


waiting for a life raft.

RYAN FU

Unknown

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Twas just this time last year I died by Emily Dickinson

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‘Twas just this time, last year, I died.

I know I heard the Corn,

When I was carried by the Farms 

It had the Tassels on 

I thought how yellow it would look 

When Richard went to mill 

And then, I wanted to get out,

But something held my will. 

I thought just how Red — Apples wedged

The Stubble’s joints between 

And the Carts stooping round the fields

To take the Pumpkins in 

I wondered which would miss me, least,

And when Thanksgiving, came,

If Father’d multiply the plates 

To make an even Sum 

And would it blur the Christmas glee

My Stocking hang too high

For any Santa Claus to reach

The Altitude of me 

But this sort, grieved myself,

And so, I thought the other way,

How just this time, some perfect year 

Themself, should come to me 

THE COMPLETE POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON

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Legends by Ryan Fu (The Hated Ones)

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As a kid,

I’ve always wanted to capture

a dragon

but I wondered what

would I’ve done

if I actually caught one?

So day in

&

day out

I eat

&

take shit

with a smile on my face

just for the chance to write

my own story.

Because isn’t that the only reason

why we do anything?

Why we abuse

&

torture ourselves,

until we are halfway to our graves. 

We want to be remembered.

We want our words

&

actions

to live on past the afterlife

making us immortal.

We are tired of not being the narrative

because we want to stand out.

We want to become heroes

in our own story. 

So, I remain steadfast

with my pen

&

my balls

waiting for the opportunity,

still chasing that dragon.

Photo Credit: Andy Fair Hurst

RYAN FU

Unknown

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The Road Not Taken by Robert Frost

2

Wizardpaths

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,

And having perhaps the better claim,

Because it was grassy and wanted wear;

Though as for that the passing there

Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black.

Oh, I kept the first for another day!

Yet knowing how way leads on to way,

I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh

Somewhere ages and ages hence:

Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—

I took the one less traveled by,

And that has made all the difference.

THE POETRY OF ROBERT FROST: THE COLLECTED POEMS, COMPLETE AND UNABRIDGED

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WE AT BE LIKE WATER BELIEVE THAT WE ARE ALL PART OF THE LEARNING EXPERIENCE, SO WE WANTED TO REACH OUT TO OUR FRIENDS & FANS TO SAY WE APPRECIATE YOUR SUPPORT

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Mathematics (BLW Contributor)

1

Image result for The Simpsons math

Neethu's

“Our chemistry will not work
well.”But the we tried mathematics.
To add upon care, subtracted the distance,
multiplied togetherness and
squared billion times our love to itself..

But…division..
Religion inserted a
‘divided by’ into our algebraic equations
and.. the quotient was another equation
of separation.. Still..the remainder remained infinity(unnoticed)…
nothing but memories of our love!!!

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Born and Born Again (BLW Contributor)

Image result for The Simpsons baby

K. Schneider Creations

Our lower backs burned in the sun
As we bent low to pluck tomatoes
Holding really ripe ones delicately.
If you drop them
They split and spill fluid
Like a cracked head.
Remember the earlier light?
It was warm on our necks
As we tugged red berries
From the bush and churned the dirt
Where the peas grew thick
On the garden fence.

I dreamt I was born into a violet light,
The color of the sky on the porch
At 8 p.m. in June.

That light settles in like a dog
In it’s favorite chair, the cicadas
Are not yet humming but will soon
like monks.

We brought the buckets
Inside and washed the product
Of our work in the sink.
We watched the sun set
On the porch at dusk.
We kissed the raspberries
Until our lips stained red.

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