He had only one day
He had only one day.
He was thirty eight, a meager age. Poor man, he was; life passed by and stopped
before he had his way.
He had to seize the day –
and thwart it from flying away.
And so he tried to find the day – catch its tail and grab it until it would start to suffocate.
As the clock stroke three, he went out
to feel the sound of a summer day.
He didn’t know what was coming, yet
he had to flee from the cavern of his stuffy room;
reign earth before he had to go back and return his breath to mother nature on his way.
Funny, it was. He noticed the little.
He saw the ants, forming long barcodes with
They were moving, eager, ground earthy
more than ever.
He paid attention to the azure skies, cradling
clouds that made many lives.
Zebras! Elephants! Giraffes! He stared, elated, though
the vast expanse of the sky had always been above his eyes.
Did he miss anything in his way?
He stood to see –
make sure that no images pass by, like the wind on that one lonely night. He failed to stop time, but
he captured every moment – opened up a bubble to protect himself
from the fast-moving day.
Fried Rice
It was all simple, when
mama used to cook me fried rice.
She just threw in bowls of white pebbles in the black pan – saw it jumping, dancing to the beat of life.
How do you cook so quickly, I asked. To that, she grinned and said,
Son, fried rice does not require the blessing of time.
She was never afraid to change the recipe,
succumbing to her little whims
as ingredients caught her sight.
Carrots, Potatoes, Bacon – everything she saw, she chopped and threw it into her cauldron, together with her little frights.
It’s better that way, she replied to my unasked question, as she turned around to clean the aftermath of her bloody kitchen, slightly smiling, as if she somehow
knew the secret of life.
It all got too difficult,
after I flew out of mama’s nest.
I tried to talk to the world, break the silence, but
it only responded with awkward murmurs and lies.
So, now I’ll make the world my fried rice.
We’ll not talk; we’ll stare at each other
like lovers on first date.
I’ll just hand it a plate of fried rice, put into the shape of a heart, but we’ll both know that our lives got more simple
than it ever were.
Walking on White Snow
I’m scared to walk on white snow.
I’m afraid that I’ll make footsteps with my dirty shoes. Touch what I should not touch –
take what has been taken from me for a long while.
I stand by my front door and wonder
how the snow maintained its beautiful, curvy figure
over the long, scary night,
how it never encountered the touch of a stranger who could do things that he knew were just not right.
I don’t want to leave any marks on this trail of white snow; I want to protect it
and ensure that it keeps its whiteness that I so greatly miss, on some quiet night.
So, I’m scared to walk on white snow.
As much as I love a winter day, I shall stay in my house, let the snow stay this way
& hope that it will stay this way for a long while
Sean Lee is a high school student at an international school in South Korea with a passion for poetry and creative writing. Growing up in a multicultural environment, he finds inspiration in the intersection of different cultures, languages, and personal experiences. His poetry often explores themes of belonging, memory, and emotional introspection.