by RebShang

My friend, Sanna the Singaporean Swede, is a clever wordsmith. Of course, her side job is teaching middle school English. That is, after all, a highly effective, highly underrated way to take over the world. One day she might write a book about it. Until then, we must be contented with her poetic weaves and rhymes and iambic pentameters.


The Lady

The lovely lady waits for sleep,
Half in slumber,
listens to the seething surf outside,
filled with wonder
that a night, so still and starry bright,
exists at all and she is here to hear it.

(Yes, the “lovely lady” is me. Sanna claims that I wanted her to write a poem about me, but I assure you that I was quite past “half in slumber” before any poem-ing began.)



I want to be free,
You can’t make me dress!
I won’t wear that sweater
Or that shirt that you’ve pressed.
No clothes for me!
I refuse to comply
to your itchy instructions
and your civilized Lie.

I wish to be me,
as nude as can be.
I strip, I tear!
I’m all-over bare!

Now there are only clothes
over there.

(Crossfield thought this poem was horridly scandalous until we assured her that this was a children’s poem and that she must imagine a 3-year-old victoriously declaring his “pursuit of happiness”.)



I said,
“I tell you they cry out in anguish, souls
a-flame, afflicted by my tortuous sin
of pretense. O my pride has brought me low!
I flew false flag, professed a faith not mine,
and donned the sandals of a liar’s gospel.
My feet have walked a weary path and paid
the price of such ill-fitting garb. Now I
repent after the sin has claimed its tax.”

Said Mother,
“Oh, stop it. You’re being dramatic.
They’re just blisters.”

(Hyperbole is a wonderful form of expression.)