Leah May Lim-Atienza

My father introduced me to Vincent Van Gogh at an early age through the song, “Vincent” by Don McClean. My mother opened up the world of poetry, fairy tales, and fiction to me. At the age of two, my favorite was “The Owl and the Pussycat” by Edward Lear. In sixth grade, I started writing my own poems, inspired, in part, by my auntie.

In 2017, I joined The Stray Poets Collective and I truly discovered my voice as a poet and a writer. With the help of other members, I improved and flourished in my writing and stuck to what I do best, minimalist poetry.

at this time

at this time of my life when shadows are growing longer i remember a childhood of poems and stories of pussy willows, owls, and pussycats of rose white and red rose of a mermaid turned to foam of a girl and her grandfather up on the Alps

at this time of my life when sunsets are more beautiful than sunrises i remember a childhood of make-believe and wonder of cakes and soda on plastic tea cups and plates of strawberry lollipops and baseball games of rides up on Papa’s shoulders of bubbles in the rain at this time of my life when dark days are plenty and sunlight is as fleeting as the life of a butterfly i remember a childhood when playing house became a game of knives and shattered plates when a cardboard box became a coffin

at this time of my life when remembering shifts from happy to sad in an instant i do my best to center on the sunflowers even as funeral wreaths color my nights

any old Sunday morning

watermelon slices on a blue plate left out in the sun

flies swarm the mango peels the toddler threw on the pathway

a red cart lie on its side spilling sand onto grass mown this morning

the fisherman wakes up late he came home the night before dancing the tequila song

the fisherman’s buddy sings a bar song as he drives down the highway, his cargo missing a basket of watermelons nowhere to go

at the crack of dawn the rooster crows it’s tiktilaok the quiet the stillness in between sleep and wakefulness somebody curses his slippers make a sucking sound as he pulls them from the muddy puddles left by the rain last night i hear him swear again as he slips and lands on his ass with a splat i bet he needs to go back to his house to change i listen to him grumble until i could make out his words no more i lie in the cocoon of my corduroy blanket i stretch my toes pop my knuckles i breathe today is another day where am i going

moments

on a leaf, newly sprung a caterpillar crawls and starts to nibble

on a bench nearby a toddler gets his first taste of lollipop

up ahead, on a trail leading to the sea a couple rejoices over an ultrasound image

to their left, on a toadstool, by some flowers an octogenarian sits as he smiles at a widow seated on the grass

to their right, on a hammock tied to a mango tree two teenagers lie with fingers linked tight

in the air, you can hear snatches of their conversations exclamations of delight a salutation whispered promises a giggle, a laugh

all around, you can see the green of life on the leaves, the blooms, the trees on the faces of the toddler licking on the couple rejoicing on the octogenarian smiling on the teenagers lying together

from a distance the first round of fireworks pops showering the skies with starbursts a balloon, and then two flies into the sky a celebration of some kind

on the ground the caterpillar crawls onto a tree and starts making a cocoon

indecision

i poured turpentine into a glass container that once held spaghetti sauce this morning i watched the clear liquid slip and slide over the brushes i used for oil paints - the blue never washing off

i tried my hand at watercolors again, the other week the instructor said to use gentle washes of hues i couldn’t get my hands to go light with the colors i dabbed at the paper to get a textured effect she said i ought to try acrylics instead

i turned to my typewriter it is pink in color its ink is black though the same as the font on my laptop with its blinking cursor similar to the marks on my journals the ones i never got to fill out there are mountains of crumpled paper on the floor

today, i debated over picking a pen or a paint brush i held on tight to a book i was halfway through reading turned on my laptop, and watched Netflix instead

playing at life

she kept the butterfly in a case in her room she left it beating its wings of black and purple against the glass graceful in panic fierce in captivity eventually dying its life petering out as its wings lay tattered on its back

she let the moth dance on her fingertips she allowed it to stay close to the candles she lighted last night she watched it flit closer to the flames, encouraged it ‘til one of its wings crumbled into ashes and it fell straight onto her waiting hands paper plane

i wrote your name on the paper i folded into an airplane that i let fly through the distance from where i sat mindful of the bees buzzing in my stomach and my chest beyond the fence that separates my yard from yours i watched the paper plane land on the rosebush you watered this morning its wings kissing the petals of an opening bud

when you find the plane would you show it the same curiosity as the dead bloom that crumbled in your hands would you notice the ink blots on the paper, the ridges made by my pen when i wrote your name next to the words i could never say or would you show it the same disregard you give to the dead leaves you snip and throw away

a walk down the city pier

i walk through the streets of this city’s pier dust motes swirling up in the air displaced by vans, trucks, cars honking speaking to the vibrations on soles cracked from the cement’s heat

i walk grime clinging to the sides of feet arms swinging crown of head warming under the morning sun the air drying off sweat on skin salt forming on creases of neck folds inside elbows below knees

i walk seeing faces wrinkled, weathered, unsmiling eyes averted brushing by bumping into bodies, warm smelling of armpits, hair fresh, unwashed pacing along feet in worn-out slippers, scuffed work boots shuffling towards the south, the north to directions unknown

i walk among these people seeing tears, kisses on cheeks smelling breakfasts of eggs, dried fish on breaths stinking of goodbyes unsaid hearing tires screeching from a distance a 10-wheeler van hits a porter running late hurrying towards a docking passenger boat he falls hard into the dust

amongst the sea of onlookers, i walk onwards tasting in my tongue the sour bile of torn test papers graduations missed babies unborn one-night stands morning afters hands on skin glass bones broken on the streets of the city’s pier.

mornings without…

when you took a walk this morning did you know you’d end up in the grove of trees where you first held her hand her skin was softer then cool with sweat yet hot like cinders the moment you touched her fingers did you know you’d end up tracing the bark of the tree where you pressed her for that first kiss scratching her back a bit underneath her blue shirt her lips were softer then warm like hot cocoa salty like buttered popcorn

when you took a walk this morning did you know you’d end up curled on the hard ground dry leaves for pillows the breeze for your blanket crying for a girl, a woman who no longer is her skin, her lips are part of the earth now all you have of her are snapshots in your mind of her smile showing a crack on a tooth of the sway of her skirt yellow like sunflowers of the wave of her hair flowing past her shoulders

when you took a walk this morning did you know you’d end up here

Quarantine Shorts

staying at home

the square outside our house is empty, save for a jumping rope coiled by the acacia tree adorned by yellow handkerchiefs flying in the wind, creating prisms under the sun

inside our house, silence reigns save for the occasional slap of running feet on wooden floors our little boy plays alone stay at home

quarantine

the orange peeled with teeth and thumbs rolled off the table when a pitcher of milk was placed by mother who said it was from Bessie the cow slaughtered to feed a family of twelve so father could stay home boredom

she stares as the broom swishes back and forth as the dust motes fly and dance with the purple paper her dog was chewing on earlier she stares as her pup scurries to and fro to catch the moving bristles, unmindful of how they tickle his nose as she sits and stares on

summer vacation, in time of the coronavirus

a kite caught stuck on electrical wire its thin plastic used by the kid who probably made it is fraying right where the wind hits it the hardest its tail flapping at every whiff of breeze starting to come undone, untethered

just below the kite a slipper was left on the street, quiet from the sounds of laughter, of children chasing after one another, of kids shouting to let out more twine so the kite would fly higher and higher

quarantine effects

outside, brother Sun beats relentlessly on the earth grasses turn brown of thirst, the soil hardening and cracking like the soles of the farmer who tills his land, under the heat of Master Sun to bring rice, corn, vegetables to the tables of people who were asked to it is summer vacation

without work, they twiddle their thumbs, nibble on lips, crack at the seams, inside they fall prey to the same relentless beating but, this time, by Sister Moon

love in time of the coronavirus

now, it is no longer love is in the air it is the coronavirus

you hide behind a blue surgical mask grateful that you can hide your mouth turned down since you relish the fog misting your glasses when you breathe it hides your eyes ready to cry at the mere mention of the old couple who died one after the other

you cry not because they must have held hands days before one expired from the illness that took the other’s will to live you cry because you are in boxed in quarantined from the rest of the islands making up the archipelago where you are you cry because you wish for the virus to steal your breath much like how he did when he smiled before he pressed his lips on your forehead you cry because the fever that claimed his body is unlike the fire in your throat you could not even dry the towelette on your forehead your temperature not the kind that brought him to the ER you cry because the coughs you expel are unlike the exhalations of spit and phlegm that came out of his mouth

you cry because unlike the old couple his hands only had air to hold before he passed you were in your room your phone silent on your night table

love is no longer in the air it is the coronavirus you wear a blue surgical mask there is no one at home but you