Fire I stared from the shadows at night, father,as you slumped at the old pine table, head bowed,quietly probing your soul.Each evening, you would dust off a hard day's laborand sink into the dining room chair and write --pouring forth lifeblood in dark blue inkacross dim yellow pages, hazy green lines.And the flame of your immersion into Artcast an amber blanket over the cornerinto which I had burrowed -- staring wide-eyed,aching to touch the fire, to plow into your inferno,but knowing, in the heart of hearts,that my innocence would char and crumbleand dissipate, like chaff in the wind of hardened age.And as days dissolved into months, and months, years,so I was nurtured in the shade of quiet influence;for, indeed, father, you spoke with your silenceas well as your tongue, words that crawledinto my mind and curled to sweet sleep,words that lay bare the truth of our darkened hearts --a shared secret passed on through shared blood.Yet, you have tamed your beast, father, have set it afire;you have found your Muse, awash in resplendence,and only she can stay the desperate hand.But I, father, am staked to the pyre,bruised and bleeding, smothered in smoke,aching for a fire -- a small sweet flameto nurse my soul to sleep, staunch my dribbling wounds.          Father, I no longer dwell in the dim corners of your          brilliant blaze, in smoky haze; I am exposed and raw,          trembling, seeking my own shelter --          a wall to the wailing wind.
James Chong

.Business Wire, Newsroom Supervisor
.University of Californa, Irvine-B.A. English
.Phi Beta Kappa