Tricia Mae Chua
Biography of Tricia Mae Chua
Weaving the tapestry of my life with words
Tricia Mae Chua Poems
Long Life (Life Is Too Short, But Just ...
Life is too short to be spent griping about the past, things you don't have, places you haven't seen,
One Inopportune Moment
You were a young leaf A flapping shimmer of green In the early spring sunshine Happy, joyous
Goodbye, My Childhood Home
Even now I dream of you In different forms and guises. Simple joys of aery days— Rooster crows to greet the morning,
Love: A Definition
He said he loved me, But does he really? Love without fidelity- Does that truly exist?
Sitting In Stillness
The day opens with a gray nondescript sky Yellowing leaves strewn haphazardly on the patchy lawn below my bedroom window. The air motionless outside except for an occasional breeze
Early Morning Delight
Here is my early morning delight… Lying together with you in a tangled heap of soft warm flesh just before dawn; Chest to chest with your legs entwined in mine. Your arms envelope me and draw me in closer until we come face to face.
Last night I prayed for angels to watch over me as I slept and to comfort my upset feelings over you. God sent me four, one on each bed corner.
Rain Poem #3
Tiny wet notes descending unheeded from heaven. The subtle beginnings To a melodious symphony of the senses. Beat by beat they slowly seep into the dry earth.
Two hearts patiently waiting in poetic gestation Past regrets alongside future not-yets, And the present filled with the hopes and dreams of a life together.
To My Lover: A Quiet Longing
In inner places still and silent, Grows a quiet longing That causes my heart to go about In restless soulful pacing.
Deep, Deep Silence: A Poem For My Father
My father lies motionless on a hospital bed, His body slowly ebbing away. With each weak heart beat His brain falls silent,
Distant tree tops Naked and aglow in sunset drenched colors of Pink and orange,
Moonsicles and life cycles, Popsicles and icicles, Bicycles and tickles— All these playful particles
Sacred Sustenance To The Soul
Poetry is music. Poetry is song. Poetry is the beat I feel in my bones. Nerve endings,
The White Ogre
A tempest brewing
under white knotty skin
ready to spring
A giant ogre
eyeing me menacingly
as cold as ice
barring me entry
concealing the rage
(February 7,2004 / Philippines)