by Sharon Pan dapple water over broad shoulders the sunlight disappears and all there is a strike. pouring begins and a storm whirls. humid air brushing against exposed knees, soggy jacket hoodie, drenched in rainwater. amidst the park trees bushes splashed from bus wheels rolling against wet concrete. when you dream of summer–you don’t dream of rain. simply the sun. but today, it pours. the sky is weeping with joy, not sadness. umbrellas blown up in the wind flowers frolic and bathe in the puddles of rain what they consider a sea. the smell lingers. stronger than vinegar and a calming smell, peaceful. Sharon Pan is a Chinese-Canadian youth writer from Vancouver. She was the third-place winner in the youth category of Fiona Tinwei Lam’s poetry contest. The poem is published in Ricepaper Magazine. When not writing, she can be found reading classic literature, looking at ancient history, and sleeping.
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by Sharon Pan the world runs with its artificial system with humans, running around automated like robots. no emotions sprout from their faces, blank like homework pages. there isn’t a singular thing out of the ordinary even the word ordinary is normal. car wheels roll on streets, people pushing shopping carts in cold grocery store aisles. how frequent can you wash your hands until you burn off the nerves from your skin? will laughter turn into mourning for the dead. a set of instructions, programmed into everyone to live normally in a social hierarchy. to tend to farms or gardens, and raise children or go to school with endless hours. the definition of beauty is complicated and a set of rules like codes. codes that the brain is familiar with a moment of judgement to meet the definition. but beauty is hardly one definition but multiple. an infinite meaning, that minds like these can’t comprehend. Sharon Pan is a Chinese-Canadian youth writer from Vancouver. She was the third-place winner in the youth category of Fiona Tinwei Lam’s poetry contest. The poem is published in Ricepaper Magazine. When not writing, she can be found reading classic literature, looking at ancient history, and sleeping.
Your Word is the name of time in my conscience our walk is born the pink clouds of your lips the hidden piece of your tragicomedy. The seconds go through our labyrinth my monsters and your butterflies your wings stained blue scarlet power is your voice Desert years, land of crossroads you harmonize my crosswords and your dreams are thermostats that annoy my pupils Honey drenched roads goosebumps, red noses rose garden flavor steps almond eyes, mustard hair I don't want to let you pass Unless you follow me, I'm going to fly unless you huddle in the snow, we can go out and be frost Piece Of Life I’ve lost a stream of light The enchanted chorus of a song My piano key, G string a piece of truth Not the cup, not the thirst I have lost the heap of sugar that I kept in my heart My confessions, a comic face Every bristly actor's dream His commitment, and my question I have lost a world of roses The sky that my little "me" painted Who guides Lady Liberty Who moves so many signs in the sea I have lost the prince of my carousel Who flies and forgets, the child of the good My essence of thunder, my ray of sunshine Who remembers the story of the rain? I have missed a part of this story. I only have to write again. ----------------- About the poet, Jimena Yengle:
Jimena Yengle (she/her) is a multidisciplinary artist, known for her book Roma Enamorada and her lyrical work. She is the director of two virtual spaces: Roma Enamorada (aimed at young people) and Magic Maneuvers (aimed at children). Her writings and visual art works are published by various international magazines.She directed Life of August play for the Juvenis Festival in Kingston, and published her second book on May 1, 2022. \\ Princess
Take the manifold arms of this blueness to fold softly into packets, like the sheen of neat plastic over smiling pills Melancholy adorns the ballroom heroine I will languish in bed, missing the songs in Lento, that she howls for the pallid day, us trussed up among tidal sheets & we become vitruvian humans. Mistress misery watches forbiddingly from the bathroom mirror, sweeping macabre visions over the poppy fields Leaving homePrairies are the extensions of photos from visiting hours, mimosas growing in pans
winter pots as the car's bumper, fish soups boiling in the doll cabinet This is a nursery of dreams, and when coronation day comes stay away. Soon, grasslands cleaves with all the wrong tones sung, the unwary tumbling down bowls of sesame paste, babies lose their mouths All this, set off by the tremors of three sails in different exotic skies, searching for unrecovered suitcases that had carried a household, abandonment still ringing distantly in the yearbooks stowed inside, away |
Photos used under Creative Commons from France1978, JarleR, Raed Mansour, Ruben Holthuijsen, L a r a -