I received a rejected letter from a literary journal a day after I turned 34. If my work were to get published, then this would be one of the loveliest birthday gifts from the publishing world. Frankly speaking, I don’t mind rejection letters. I’ve gotten them so much that I can make collage on the wall. It’s part of growing up as a writer. It helps me (the writers) to grow-up and mature before we are accepted by one of the top-five publishing houses.
Now, the editor commented the lack in its ‘form, structure and plot’. And she’s willing to help me to polish it up, so that I’m ‘always welcome to re-submit’ to the journal again. Fine. I did as she told. It’s approaching a week or so, and I have yet to hear from her.
‘When there’s a will, there’s a way.’
Right. ‘That’ isn’t the only journal that’s available in this world. I can never blocking the door, idly standing there. I have to move on, not that I still have my legs that functioning, but I’m not going to waste anymore time. I’ve already submitted it to another literary mag, and had other alternative online journals in mind, as well.
Somehow, the feminism theory that I’d studied in the Jurisprudence class has kept me going ’til this day.
Dear Beautiful People,
Yours truly is writing this to inform that there WILL NOT BE any poetry update in the month of December. But I will be posting four micro-fiction (Flash fiction) in December on every Friday, instead of fortnightly. So, that’s some bonus for all of us. *smile*
To be honest, I have other priorities – lots of readings to catch up, stories and poetry editing for any up and coming journal submission, plus I have to reply my pen-pals’ letters that I haven’t been doing for quite some time. Hence, please take note this is NOT my retirement from the poetry scene.
I hope everyone will still continue to support my work and me. Over here, I wish all of you an early Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
Thank you very much…
Much love & With Utmost Appreciation,
I asked him what’s the purpose of the maple leaf,
in a spur of moment. He grinned, I didn’t utter a word.
Instead, he asked me to go ahead and laugh.
He doesn’t mind. Most people think collecting maple
leaves being ridiculous and gay.
Coincidentally, we stayed in the same hostel,
but in a different dormitory. He insisted to treat
me breakfast the next day. Tim Hortons was two blocks away.
We walked in, there was a couple
sitting opposite our direction, who professed his love
to this girl. She asked the boy to prove his love to her?
The boy was perplexed. The girl then began showing her sinister grin.
The boy took the plate of an unfinished sandwich from the next table
and ate it in front of her. While I was disgusted by this sick joke,
he whispered. “Look at how romantic those lovebirds are.”
During dinner, he ate like a glutton and then drank himself away,
digesting bottles after bottles of alcoholic fermented malt.
We spent a night at the Waterfront Station,
sleeping on the bench. As we were on our way back to the hostel,
the only word he said was I’m sorry.
Tennis ball flying in the sky
Boom-box in the beat
Engine’s running high
Gentlemen ready to start the fire
The who, to keep the finest keeper
Manicure & pedicure daddy’s game
Dancing under the moon
Place me inside the rocket-boo
Tell me your favourite gelato
its flavour and the toppings
dedicate to Amy Lynn Walton
we have learned of one another
before meeting face-to-face
15 years of friendship
through pen and papers,
glues and confetti
sorry for unable to visit you
in the summer of twenty-ten
I promise, to make it up to you
I trust the day will come
Hold onto me.
Breathing underwater with you
We’re almost lover
Paragliding across the skyline.
Wind sweeps under my feet
Teardrops like waterfall
Woman cries for her child.
Hell, I don’t believe
that your love is my drug
My faith is thy eternity.
Steampunk in Qin Dynasty
Swaying Kung-Fu gently
Silver-fox on the electric goal.
I don’t come with rain
Though I was born in November
What is there to blame?
Tadpoles breeding in the puddle of mud
hearing my cry of suffocation
Wrapped in surgical white cotton
My contribution to breathe fast
to this world of roaming angels and devils
Never mind the lotion on my skin
Presenting nakedness of foetus scent
Unsure of the purpose to live
Fingers and feet waving
Unknown of the danger I may face
When the time comes I’m blemished
Learn from the worst
Images of insecurity merges
Foes surrounding me, seeking advantage; back-stabbers
Perishing my newborn plumage
I pick up those pieces and start anew
Only then I come whenever rain brings