Love as You Do

My dear,
These roses are red
And violets so blue.
Why won’t you love me
As I have loved you?

Oh dear,
Though your roses are red
And violets so blue,
These stems are too thorny
And the blossoms too few.

Sammie Oh


Brief Adieu


dear friend

I will miss you

once more.

-Sammie Oh

Saturday Special

On my way to Sam’s Club I got a text. This text was a challenge to stop, take a breath, look at the September sky, and write a poem or song about “that light that turns the green trees yellow.” And what else could I do but accept the request? So I composed a short rhyme whilst shopping:

Such summer lights, like rays of gold
Bring growth to plants as leaves unfold
And clear skies strung with gray-white puffs
Are reservoirs of water troughs.

Yet come a couple months or two,
Each flower trades her vibrant hue
For fruits and grains the soil has bred
And trees of orange, gold,and red

-Sammie Oh

Halfway to Middle Age

Because of today,

I am now 22,

And extremely full,

Of Korean BBQ.


The Wheaton winter as seen from my apartment window last week.


Countless are the snowy flakes
That shower the earth tonight
Whirling and swirling down
Caught by the slightest breathe
Falling, drifting, landing
On dirt and pavement
Draping the dead in crystal robes
And glittering under starlight.

And still they fall
Revealing the world
As through a veil
Until the weight of it bears down
On boughs of drooping evergreens
Bending, dropping, crumbling
Into fine powder
Softly touching the frozen ground.

-Sammie Oh

Country Not My Own

With only two weeks left in Australia, I’ve finally written a poem about being here.

Country Not My Own

Australia, Australia,
Could I have ever known,
Just how much I’d love thee,
Oh country not my own?

Can three months truly justify,
What fondness I have grown,
For sidewalks lined with gum trees,
And Jacarandas sown?

I could swim with jellyfish,
In oceans opal blue,
Or watch the outback sunset,
With wallaby and ‘roo.

Red dirt bakes with billabongs,
Under the blazing sun,
But coastal waves are clear and cool,
And I hear, the surfing fun…

Yet there’s a rue inside of me,
And I’ve felt it there before,
Persistent, though, a bit subdued,
An ache I can’t ignore.

Ah, America, America!
I miss thee my sweet home.
How I long to trod your soil,
No matter where I roam.

All your wonders, all your woes,
Your men, your air alone,
Is sweet enough a memory,
To draw a mournful moan.

And so escapes from deep within,
As one is often prone,
The gentle cry of living in,
A country not my own.

-Sammie Oh

At a Park near St. Paul’s Cathedral

After the Sung Eucharist City of London Festival Service and before our tour of the Museum of London, our professor brought us into the Postman’s Park and to the Memorial to Heroic Self-sacrifice. This is a product of that visit.

At a Park near St. Paul’s Cathedral

The gentle sun still shines,
For the Postman’s pond and garden,
Though the clouds and winds have brought a chill,
Down the streets of central London.
Despite the breezes that swept us here,
Through the cardigans we wore,
They were not the cause of our dampened eyes,
Nor the sorrows that we bore.
A wall we saw before us,
Of love and grief and pride,
Of names that who, for others’ sake,
Had sacrificed their lives.

-Sammie Oh