Hide and Seek

It took a long while for you to find me
through our treasure trove.
Look for me, and an acquisition it was,
my heart treaded to your tarantella.

Through the white desert sandy blankets and the spilled seas,
you came to search for me.
Closets, Hidden Hatches, Attics,
I told you to find me, come protect me.

Despite the tedious counting, you told me you were coming.
I questioned if you had surrendered to your fear of fear,
so you could win one battle against these chromosomes.
I thought I’d be lost forever, that you’d be lost forever.

Marco to the Polo,
crimson tie-dye on your childish shirt,
Colors wanting to collide, to bond but only,
Stuck between two intersecting ways of a chromatography-inked maze.

I yelled, “Over here!” to help you,
only to confuse you with the echoes drumming in your ears.
I was paralyzed in time, tick to the tock, dusk to dawn.
Waiting – hinting you by ruckuses, pots and pans,
making it easier for you, from my love for you.

Only until you reached my hiding spot,
your face became blank, striking with fear in your soft cheeks,
I had realized you weren’t looking for me, in a childish game:
You were looking for a hiding spot of your own.

–         Emilyn Nguyen, Hide And Seek

Note from the Poet:
This poem is about my cousin, who had been diagnosed with Down Syndrome. When we were younger, we enjoyed the simplest of life’s pleasure such as ‘Hide and Seek’. He is the most clever little [maybe not so little anymore] boy. He is the brightest kid I know. Despite his disorder, I was never so proud of him each and every day developing like any other kid in the world. Labeling him disabled was never an option. There was a never ending quality to him that some of are missing in our lives everyday: happiness.

One out of seven hundred babies each year are born with Down Syndrome. Genetically common, four hundred thousand people in the United States harbor this condition. When Down Syndrome occurs when an individual has a a full or partial extra copy of chromosome 21. The enticing material alters the course of development leading to health problems and causes the characteristics associated with Down Syndrome: low muscle tone, small stature, an upward slant to the eyes, and a single deep crease across the center of the palm.

I came across a program that gears independent fundraisers interested in raising money on behalf of the National Down Syndrome Society (NDSS):

NDSS Your Way is an online program geared towards independent fundraisers interested in raising money on behalf of the National Down Syndrome Society (NDSS). Participants in this program create personalized fundraising web pages in support of an event or individual pursuit. Each individual event is hosted independently and oversight is provided by  NDSS.

Fundraisers are invited to create a customizable web page in one of three categories—Compete, Celebrate and Create—no matter which category you choose, your personal page can pay tribute to someone who inspires and motivates you.

As a Fundraiser, you are helping to further the mission of the National Down Syndrome Society. NDSS works to create a culture that values, accepts and includes the more than 400,000 Americans with Down syndrome. NDSS envisions a world in which all people with Down syndrome have the opportunity to enhance their quality of life, realize their life aspirations, and become valued members of welcoming communities.

I encourage everyone to check out the website and donate.

– Emilyn Nguyen, Hide and Seek 

Falling in Love with an Artist

Illusions are where we were bound – Indelible.
I fell for the artist, as a writer, embedding his love into black ink.
He painted the words I could no longer write:

Ask the priest down the street about the heart you wish to possess;
how you want to relapse the emotion you once had after widowed.
You merely questioned how one’s pure beating chest,
wasn’t contracted with a light headed soul as yours
– now that you’ve seen her face,
the skin between your fingers tingled with an emptiness of a brush.

In a year, your scintillations glows a bit more gold than these blue ink pens,
a locale of open fields  and color-blocked mountains use as a barricade.
Paths painted inset – layered beneath and below the certainty of years,
all of this useless chaos swirling in about these empty distractions, and feeble
pretense –
as you paint her; sculpt her colors.

Enfold our inevitable surrender,
sculpting faces in 100 Celsius; sloughing yellowed paper to Mache her skin.
Pressing your face against the damasked canvas to remember,
her neck of a turquoise necklace, on your rosewood table
as you paint a familiar face.

Saved a memory in the clot in your forehead,
that you’ve strayed into sickle shapes and fickle pieces.
Cautiously you paint her ashes red of your pain, her eyes emerald green and blue:
Spring has come, and you remember her face as you sit here…
Plucking flowers from her grave.
We were the notch in the naïf; complete tessellations in a slew of opals.

He blew past me, subtle in strength, silent in the hymns of prayers;
transfixing beauty to the encounter of the wind
gentle as breeze lifts seeds off dandelion manes, spiraling, winding.
An echo in his heart conjures up a colorful time torn beneath his feet.

He was the color endowed in me, painting flowers on my grave.
Loving him was the fortunate occurrence of serendipity in each page I wrote
like the scintillating sun follows, brightest as we become a climatic whole.

–          Emilyn Nguyen, Falling in Love with an Artist

Paper Airplanes

You challenge an innocent being:
Chasing her soul on the wall her shadow fell upon,
she beckons to run far ahead,
but she hid in the mist of your making: an illusion of your trickery.
She coughs up you only to be breathing you again,
thick and heavy, devouring in you – pounds of your opium embedded inside her.

You drown her in gases, synthetic poetry:
It makes her go numb,
up and down her red and blue veins,
dumb on the brisk of cold frost on grass tips as
mountains tips only croon towards her, leaving her hanging on a cliff,
falling, then flying to heaven – only to have you shake her out of the clouds again.

You scorch heroin into her, dictating her vision:
Blinded by truth violated by your words, exposed in a mirror,
Her heart limps, throats sore, bruised lined skin, slit throats
dried lips to alcoholic kisses,
an aching body left on the bottom emotional shelf.
Passive, Aggressive: Murder – Inability to grieve, Inability to receive…

Bombarded her with paper airplanes, love notes:
her flesh being imprinted with dropping spitballs,
carrying jokes dark as the bags under her eyes –
dark as the memories they may possess.
Pulses quickening towards a swift, sick conclusion of humor,
erupting World War because

You were afraid to tell her you loved her.

–         Emilyn Nguyen, Paper Airplanes