Conversations the other day

I'll never get tired of trees

2012-02-26T12:11:00.002+08:00

****

Canopy

sunlight tripping
in and out

                            above
and through the leaves

the branches of
sea almond trees

             spread green,
     green,                     green,
                         amber,
          yellow     ,
                red;

      filters the collected

               light
.
                        up
Faces smiling

            at the sun,
            breathing in the breeze.

****

Posted at dVerse Poetics: Sculpting a Poem. I think what they meant to look for poems inspired by sculptures. I sort of misread it, I was kinda sculpting a picture out of words. No great harm I guess.

A totem of sorts

2012-02-25T06:57:00.001+08:00

***

Stone Bird

relic
on the sand

filled playground
ultramarine
blue mosaic
tiles covered

pelican profile
with a single

eye
watch
over

see-saw

and swings
the widest grin

rain or shine
I remember

climbing
into that smile

settling
into a daydream.

***

*A playground "Stone Bird"

2012-02-13T15:04:00.001+08:00

Sponge mode again.

Pen and paper

2012-01-31T22:10:00.001+08:00

***

Back to basics

Putting aside excuses about
not having good paper
or dedicated notebook, about
not liking my own handwriting;

thumb aches, hunching over
scribblings, I'm holding the pen
too tightly -- the grip has become
strange, strained; dexterity

was lost from banging on keyboards.
These eyes are accustomed
to the default Times New Roman
font, not these blue lashes
whipping odd tracks across lined pages.

Watch out:

the ink will need time to dry,
stain,
absorb;

it could smudge if you are careless
balancing a point on the 'i'
or crossing beams for a 't'.

So here are my lines written down on paper --

seems so rushed,
so messy,
so rough;
different, raw.

***

Posted at dVerse Open Link Night #29. Very insightful post by Joe Hesch on the page, do check it out and share your own poem.

Hard Lessons I

2012-01-29T16:24:00.003+08:00

***

My father told me

My father told me
that I should not let it go.
My father told me
that I should stand up
for what I believe in.
My father told me
not to let people step
all over me.

My father taught me
not to trust anybody.
My father taught me
that if someone gave me a fish,
it could be a chicken.

My father taught me
I have be above everyone.
My father told me
I had to demand respect.
My father taught me
to put a fierce face at work.
My father told me
I must never have a soft hand.

My father told me
I will lose these friends I have
My father told me
I was to walk away from them
before anyone takes me for a ride.

I tired of listening to my father.
I'm tired to blaming it on him
and repeating his lessons in my head.
My father -- I should visit his grave
and remind myself that he's long dead.

***

My father did the best he could with what he had. I have come to realise that although he was a harsh disciplinarian, that he did it out of the love that he knew how to give. I've always hated that people compared me with my father, especially the temper. It's true, I learned it off him. And now I must come to understand that is not how it is. that I don't need to continue that kind of legacy. Life is journey, life teaches us things without sorting out for us what we should take from it. I've picked up a lot of bad habits to be where I am now, that is what I must come to understand and to turn around.

(Comments now disabled for this post. Thanks for reading, friends.)

Fragment

2012-01-28T10:01:00.002+08:00

***

Ripples

Ripples form on the surface of a pond.
Below, fishes kiss the surface; above,
a turtle dives, a pond-skater skates.

***

Plant language

2012-01-20T21:28:00.006+08:00

Touch-Me-Not

Leaves fold

close
at every
curious prod
or
provocation,

no matter tip of finger
or drop of rain

or brush of passing
butterfly's wings;

entertain only
kiss of sun
or whispering
breeze,

everything else --
leaves
come together,
bow.

***

Posted at dVerse Meeting At The Bar. They are looking for poems fitting the style of Imagism. So if you got one or want to read what the poets at dVerse come up with, do visit the page.

New year, new explorations

2012-01-03T21:47:00.001+08:00

Happy 2012, dear friends and visitors. I wish you all a wonderful year ahead filled with love, creativity and new discoveries!

****

Trespassing

I ventured onto a path long abandoned,
leaving long straight ways, the shade
of planted trees and paved roads,
tracked through a tangle of twigs and
hanging branches that scratch and tear
and prod, ripping open sleeves,
drawing blood, going for my eyes.

Spider web wrap around my face --
I fear the spiders getting into my hair,
the bodies of those they drained
of blood and life cling onto my clothes.

DO NOT ENTER.

On the jungle floor, centipedes crawl, ants ride on millipedes,
leeches lurk and lunge for warm blood, blue-green feathered
fowl sweeps the ground for snails; on ends of leaf tips, wasps
seal combs of their hexagonal homes, swarms of gnats abuzz
around a family of mud-caked hogs, noses to ground, feeding.

DO NOT DISTURB.

An alien with size 6 rubber shoes, rudely
bright colored backpack and tools, intrudes --
scattering insects, overturning rocks,
snapping branches, unsettling pools....

The jungle fowl fled deeper into the thick of leaves; angry
vibrations of rapid beating wings, needles dagger-mark
my exposed neck; above, monkeys whooped in alarm,
below, twines and roots attempt to trip. I feel a burning
sting of a wasp on my wrist. A mango falls, splits at my feet.

I cover my ears, hold my breath,
break for the edge, back to the road,

back into exile.

****

Pathless native tropical jungles and wetlands are not always welcoming to visitors, in some cases, it can feel downright hostile. It takes preparation, care and respect to trek through a jungle or explore a swamp without too much disruption to the residents or frustration to self.

Posted at dVerse Open Link Night #25. Please join us for some great poetry and share your own!

Info Age Troubles

2011-12-13T20:33:00.003+08:00

***

Intermittent Communications

Ten minutes of silence, expectation,
anticipating before I noticed
the modem's troubled blinking lights.

Did you get my last message? Lost

before saying goodbye,
a glimpse of a future I fear.

The line is ok, the line is not;
green light blinking,
                        blinking.
Off.
                               Blinking,

trying to connect, trying to reach across
aged copper wires rotting in the walls;

technology is failing me --
      downloads jammed up for hours,
the webpage loads but does not play,
meanwhile, we hung tight

to this fragile con n ecti
                                       ON. So, where

were we?

Offline.

The distance between us rears
its ugly head.

** It bums me out whenever I have problems with the internet, because I depend on it so much to connect to friends with common interests. I had a hellish time trying to talk someone over instant messaging last weekend. And thus the idea for this one.

***Posted to dVerse Open Link Night #22. Better late than never. :)

In Parallel

2011-12-11T16:50:00.004+08:00

Lines

Lines divide the early dusk
into roseate shades;

for miles they run in parallel,
powering
life's adopted necessities,

sometimes slagging,
sometimes touching,
rarely crossing;

the moon drifts like a lost note
between them --
lines on which music could sit.

**Inspired by HVP's photo "Moon Lines".

***
Posted at Poetry Pantry #79

Aftermath process

2011-12-06T22:35:00.004+08:00

***

Tagged

Rescued raven, a feather green-tagged --
no longer all-black.

Against a window, she beats her wings
and pecks at the other one she sees

What is that disdain in your eyes,
parrot? If you dare,
come out from the other side!

She caws up a thunderstorm,
the sun hid behind the clouds.

The other became a dark shadow,
ghost-clear; through the window's
black glass she could see inside --
an apartment long abandoned,

and the other, it had her eyes.

***

Afternote: I know that magpies have passed the mirror test of self awareness, but I'm not sure if ravens and crows can recognize themselves in the mirror. But they are such smart birds, I would tend to think they would eventually figure it out.

**This poem is posted to Open Link Night Week 21 at the dVerse Pub. Join us for an awesome time with excellent reads.

Paper findings

2011-12-03T23:12:00.002+08:00

While De-cluttering

Printed emails detailing meet-ups    conflicts re
solved    ex-loves    old friends reunited    keep-
sakes; years passed    all of them have moved on;
email deleted    paper trail    memories    intent
to keep in touch    best to leave them in the box
with no lock or key less either be broken or lost.

Greeting cards   signatures in blue and black ink;
they write the same things year after year – stay
cool    stay young    have a good life    love and
hugs    love and kisses    tiny testimonies    little
notes of appreciation; thanks for letting me know.

I have a habit of hoarding emails in my inbox for a time the same way I would keep letters. An old habit, I guess. :)

2011-11-28T11:01:00.004+08:00

I am out of ideas and distracted. So in the meantime, with regards to poetry, I will just be jotting ideas, reading and just being a sponge.

(Image from sundarymercury.net)

Hope you didn't miss it.

2011-11-16T06:50:00.002+08:00

***

11:11:11 11-11-11

“and never again for another hundred years.”

A hundred years ago, no clock
displayed time digitally in
hours:minutes:seconds
, and no clock displayed dates --
day:month:year.

A thousand years ago, time is told
by sun and shadow, the turning
of seasons, the movement of gods,
heroes and monsters across the night sky.

I stared at my plastic desk clock,
a cheap thing I got from a thrift store --

dots and dashes
connecting
pairs of
in
divi
dualistic
ones: harmony
in a time of many di

visions.
I savored the moment,
for I am of the first generation
to see time displayed like this:

11:11:11 11-11-11

. In another hundred years, who knows
what beautiful arrangement of time
I will not be present for to bear witness.

***

Inspired in part by HVP's photo "Once every hundred"

Posted for dVerse Open Link Night Week 18. Join us for some great reads and share your poem in this great community.

Oh the joys of email...

2011-11-06T20:21:00.003+08:00

****

A re: for your Re:

Somehow the words
you used before
just doesn't sit right.

Building paragraphs brick by brick,
cementing thoughts behind impenetrable
walls of text; cliches of politeness
punctuate our exchanges; explanations
hang at the end of each sentence
never quite falling into places
where I want them to. Blinking
cursor awaits a proper response;

I check the inbox
again and again
for clarification.

****

The color of vengeance

2011-11-06T07:49:00.002+08:00

Red

She wore red
and stood that the water's edge;
her son held her hand,
his young face unsure:
mother's face and tone of voice
had been strangely threatening.
She had made him wear

red
that morning when
he wanted to wear green,
his favorite color;
red was for girls.

“Don't you want to be in
the same color as mummy?”

Red --
her dress, mother looked
like some kind of fairy
though boys do not care
for fairies but she did
look beautiful.

Their toes touched the water's edge.
He pulled her back a little, she
smiled, her eyes glistening but
still determined,
“come with mummy. Don't you

want to be with mummy?”
she whispered into his ear,
he looked out to the water,
the grey and black waves
lapping. She picked him up
and he held her tightly,
breathed in her perfume, her
breath, comforted, he nodded.

“Daddy?”

Red
crossed her eyes. He knew it --
he had said something wrong;
mummy is about to tell him to stop it,
just like the time he thought
it would be cute to pull her arm
when she was on the phone,
just like the time he thought
it would be funny if he hid
behind a counter at the supermarket.

“Daddy will be right along.”

Red,
her eyes.
he did the only thing he knew how

“I love you mummy.”

she sighed and smiled an upside
down frown, but at least she was
not angry anymore, perhaps still
a little sad. She held him closer
and they entered the water together.

Poem is based on a true event: I don't have the details, this is only just how I envisioned the emotions. A young mother and her son were found drowned at a reservoir, they were both found to be wearing red. (News article link) It was found that the woman was fighting for custody of her son in an ugly divorce and had been in terrible depression. The chinese people generally believe that wearing red and committing suicide enables the person to return as an avenging ghost. Since their deaths, there had been several more cases of drowning suicide at this location.

To the spirits, I'm sorry for that you felt there was no way out and that it had been so hard that you decided to take this path. Please know that your story has been heard by many, and rest in peace.

****

dVerse Poetics - Play with Color hosted by Victoria prompted this write, although I don't think it was intended writers come up with something as morbid as this. Please do check out the awesome poets and their works.

Nature will always win out in the end

2011-11-02T07:20:00.003+08:00

River

the city claims a river
enslaves it in cement

calls it a canal

years of weather
beat the encasement

tufts of grass sprout
from the cracks

To be honest, I think the picture shows and says more than any poem I can write about it ever would.

Posted for dVerse Open Link Night Week 16. Join up and explore for some great reads!

Conversation snapshot

2011-10-30T08:02:00.011+08:00

Sweet

“It was very sweet of her to say that.”

Not exactly right to say that her words
are as sweet as over-ripe strawberries
or candy cane on Christmas eve
after a turkey ham and cheese sandwich;

too sweet, as a matter of fact, it makes your molars
weep at the roots and your fillings vibrate like
they've been touched by tuning forks, bringing a sharp
pitch to the ears like the whirl of a dentist drill.

Delight?

“I don't think so.”

***

A number of my work are conversational snapshots. I had this one in draft and thought I share it.

Submitted for dVerse Poetics: Call and Response. I already read a few on that link list, and they are excellent. Even if you don't join, I urge you visit and read the poems listed there.

Well, since it's the season for shades and such...

2011-10-26T07:35:00.001+08:00

***

Recalling a shade

Kicked a rusty paint can
while walking
through a shortcut:

it rolled
sideways
clattered

meandered

down to the grassy patch
to where our house
once stood; nothing

is left except for
a pile of wooden legs
from a broken chair,
a scattering of dull
emerald shards from
a window pane.

Apple white --
that's his favorite color;

it doesn't work for the walls --
the light shade of green apples,

the kind that makes
your teeth ache
with its citric juices.

I've forgotten why
my dad liked apples
(and apple-white)

so much. I kicked it again
and it broke, showering
little rusty bits, flakes
all over my shoe.

There will be a road going
through this place next year,
no one will remember
there was a house here.

(Idea for this piece from HVP's photo "Real Life Grunge")

***

Initially posted somewhere in June, I've made a few changes and offered it for dVerse Pub Open Link Night (no.15). Friends, please join us there, there's a great crowd, and plenty of good reads.

The army in my house

2011-10-22T21:35:00.005+08:00

****

Cake crumbs

black ant
black ant

ant ant ant ant ant ant Cake
                                        ant

jaws                                b a c k
closed        food to the nest
        around   back     to the queen
    crumbs       who     sits pregnant
carry                               w i t h

ant ant ant ant ant ant
ants
   ant
     an
       a
          a
        h i ll
    ant     ant

and all around, soldiers
    ten times the size of workers

stand around guarding the line of
ant ant ant ant ant ant ant ant
stand around guarding the line of

order
   |
single

ant cleaning feelers, or
taunting human

ant ant ant ant ant ant Cake
                                         ant

****

I saw some of the excellent entries for dVerse FormForAll where they were doing shape and concrete poetry this weekend and was inspired. But alas, as usual, I'm too late to put my link in.

In any case, I had fun.

A manner of definition

2011-10-18T21:48:00.002+08:00

***

Grasshoppers

Severed blades of grass
blended green
assaults olfactory
brushes;

a pair of mynahs
partners in life
searching for

              grasshoppers;

grey-wing moths,
flutter above cut
lawn.

A calico
mound of fur,
          razor claws
(hidden)
under paws,
hoping for

     grass hoppers.

***

This one is submitted to dVerse Open Link Night #14 -- Join us for some fantastic finds and reads.

Tea and sunflower seeds

2011-10-12T06:59:00.001+08:00

***

The art of waiting

A glass of tea, leaves
drift and settle after a sip;

I crack open
a sunflower seed

taste the bitter sweet kernel,
toss the brittle husk into a bowl

measuring time
in empty shells

until I hear your key
turning in the door,

picked up the evening paper,
pretend I wasn't bored.

***Inspired by CygnetSeven's photo: Thru Tea.

Been a bit distracted lately (see gaming blog), though I did manage a few drafts last weekend that looked promising.

This one is submitted to dVerse Open Link Night #13 -- I've been looking forward to participating again.

I don't mean that in a good way

2011-10-09T11:24:00.005+08:00

***

“You say I'm a bitch like it's a bad thing.”

put down

to a four-legged
beast in heat

obscene, dirty
mud caked paws

panting after
alpha dogs

defiance turns
insult to compliment

back off backing
off bumper sticker

wood chips dust
your shoulder

***

I think calling a woman a bitch for whatever reason is an insult. It's a rude term plain and simple. And I'm always amazed and shocked that women would refer to themselves as bitches like it's a good thing.

Posted for dVerse Poetics - Bumper to Bumper. I don't normally do prompts but this seemed like a fun one and I just happened to have one in mind. Visit dVerse for more excellent poems to discover and enjoy.

Coffee, that's what I need

2011-10-02T20:23:00.008+08:00

***

Thirsty Ghost

i'm hungry i'm thirsty
i had my water but i need
something to get through

drifting, existing, invisible, listening in
on conversations strange and familiar

of housing loans, medical bills, raising children
taxes, traffic jams, floods, the latest restructures

a bully talking about how women are always
nagging, an unfaithful wife who can't understand
the lingo of kidsthesedays, a petit girl retreats
afraid she has asked too many questions

the other table has alcohol
the rest are full of vitriol

the things people do for money and 2 square meals
and not forgetting electric bills

the internet is such a threat
are you getting the new ipad
babies should not be playing with them
facebook is the new way of communicating

i need coffee but i can't find any
what kind of restaurant is this
i'm thirsty i'm not hungry anymore

***
A bit of a rant. I think it's just something I needed to put down to get it out of my system.

**Posted to Poetry Pantry #69 on Poets United.

**Featured on Wordsmith Wednesday- Snooping. My thanks to Victoria. Do visit her blog (liv2write2day at wordpress) for her poems, her stories, writing prompts and interesting discussions on the writing craft.

Gloom season

2011-09-26T21:38:00.001+08:00

***

After an afternoon of rain

A mist blankets
the raintrees
as storm clouds
drift toward
the setting sun.

Bull frogs groan
in the mud
under the creepers
and reeds,
cattails nod
    as moist air
        breathes. Wet

    are the faces
of rocks, open palm
leaves, the last
of the rain drops
gather and drip
into foamy pools
and mud streams

               swirling
     brown grit,
a soup
       of fallen
               foliage
         and
drowned
       insects;
                    a

live concert of crickets
begins a lively symphony.

***

It's been a rainy week mixed with hazy conditions. The sky has been a depressing grey. The nights are better since it has been slightly cooler.

Not gonna take part in any poetry rounds this week as I'm probably not going to be able to reciprocate from mid week onwards. There is an annoying event to attend to in real life near end of the week that I'm not particularly looking forward to. I would rather not go, but I will try to make the best of it. Perhaps I will have more material for writing when I return on the weekend.

Where did it go?

2011-09-22T06:46:00.002+08:00

Bee/wasp

It's a bee in my room
or was it a wasp?

I'm confused,
you all look the same,
all i see is the yellow
and black lines

of yellow and black
yellow black yellow
and black lines;

buzzing blades
beating against
the florescent light;

now, where did you go?

This was originally posted here. I've made some small changes.

Posted for dVerse Open Link Night #10. I really wanted to take part, even though I'm late. I thought of just visiting links, but I would feel bad if I had nothing to offer in return.

Light and sound concert from heaven

2011-09-19T12:36:00.006+08:00

...

Late night storm

Like a raspy yawn as it starts
to stir, a gentle roar
from a distant as it approaches;

shut the windows,
don't let it in.

A crack of lightning

snaps

the circuit breaker
off, lights
and refrigerator go out;

thunder, like a run of cannon
balls rolling down the stairs --
hands cup ears, heads lowered
as if enduring celestial scoldings;

comforting vibrations
lead back to calm.

The whole house pauses to listen:
a billion raindrops dive down
hitting ground
together -- an applause.

**Posted at Poets United, for Poetry Pantry #67

**Posted on Victoria's Liv2write2day blog: Wordsmith Wednesday-Sensory Description, Hearing.

I had this feeling I was being watched...

2011-09-12T19:10:00.002+08:00

***

Being seen

taking leave from a book
looking out the window

golden rays of dusk
wash over
a graffitied pavement

ripples of heat rise
from the road baked all afternoon

a stranger on his way home
jaywalker
        el matador of traffic

crows hunching
in twos and threes
on a telephone wire

solid black eyes
speculating him

he turned his head
sees me

       step away

not sure why
it bothers me to be seen

            watching

***

Posted to dVerse Poets Pub for Open Link Night Week 9 . (Fellow poets and visitors, do visit this site and check out the long list of poems and blogs linked up there.)

It's ok, you're old enough...

2011-09-08T07:20:00.004+08:00

***

Moving past a season

A teddy bear toy
hangs on a nail;

summer is going out
with the wind and rain,

soft toy damp to touch
sags, stitches
that made a smile
wanes, button eyes
lose their shine.

A boy put into bed
after being told
he is old enough,

eyes stay wide
under the covers
but only for a night.

Inspired by HVP's photo "Lost and Found".

Posted to Poetry Pantry #66 on Poets United.

2011-09-03T21:26:00.002+08:00

(In memory of IPL, a dear friend.)

Eternal

the sun sets
on the other side
the sun rises

i woke up too late
to witness
her arrival

but i made sure
not to miss
the way she sets

the sky on fire
glowing embers
dim to night

and tomorrow
over there
a phoenix rises

(This one's personal, so comments have been disabled. Thanks for reading.)

This, as in, this _one_.

2011-08-30T08:42:00.006+08:00

***

This life

Hang on a little while longer,
let it all sink in
while the hourglass turns
the rainbow wheel spins;

sleep, wake
work

interrupted by imaginary conversations

; emotional tides rising and falling
with the planks of text,
cliff-hanger paragraphs,
quote unquote windows.

A flaming metaphor cripples a blind analogy,

(a smiley is supposed to make it better)
derailing arguments with no impact
on the global hunger for attention

; continue to starve

forgetting the link back to your life
(your real life, as they like to say
to differentiate this fantasy from
the reality of bills, spouses and bathrooms.)

Is all that you are and exist to be
dependent on broadband connection,

the say-so and cheer of faceless strangers --
an almost real world parallel always available
at the flip of a modem switch

; let there be power.

***

Just some thoughts on the cyber life. Some people become so entrenched and obsessed with their characters and avatars in internet communities, they act like they don't have anything else. Or rather like their lives depended on it -- always striving to prove their point like it's a matter of life and death, enraged when ignored, stalking and bullying those who refuse to succumb to their point of view.

It's quite something to observe the amount of rage and hate some people are capable of once they are disagreed with, called out on or simply oust from a group for their disruptive behavior.

The wonders in a single water drop

2011-08-21T10:16:00.005+08:00

Droplet

Like a glass globe dangling
on the tip of a leaf

or a sparkling gem
on the lip of a purple orchid
that just tasted rain,

an ant or a bee looking into it
will discover their world within
miniaturized,

upside-down,

such fragility --
ever at the mercy of wind
and gravity

or a careless bird or beast;

a tremble or a shake
may cause it to fall
and break

if left alone, it evaporates.

(In part, inspired by my friend HVP's SoFoBoMo project "iDrops", a collection of photos taken using the iPhone.)

Submitted to The Poetry Pantry #63.

To The Very End

2011-08-15T20:46:00.003+08:00

Still a flower

The tree that once flaunted you
has decided to let you go,

spiral and twirl
a first and last dance,

descend

towards the heap
of skeletal leaves
and half chewed guavas
lying in compose.

A breeze comes to carry you away,

becomes bored
preferring to sustain
a circling hawk.

Finally you touch down,
face on the pavement:
pink and white petals curling
a little off the ground;

still a flower.

Confessions of an internet junkie number... I've lost count.

2011-08-05T23:00:00.003+08:00

***
Irrational

It does not take much to sit here
in front of this white space

staring at zeros and ones
that resemble letters and numbers.

It takes a certain amount of nerve
to speak to an unknown audience

of one, or millions (or none).

What does it matter,
that one response

or zero, that dreaded void
that you waste a few minutes

staring into,

trying to decide what it means.

***

Sky watching

2011-08-02T06:40:00.000+08:00

A small plane in the sky

i will always look up

when i hear
the soft hum
of a small plane

as it flies far
above
over me

to see where

so small a thing
in so vast a blue expanse

i

even smaller
down here

can't help
but smile

as i squint to see

the craft
one man
arms wide
soaring

higher
than the birds.

(Inspired by HVP's photo "Looking Up" )

Down that road

2011-07-28T12:36:00.049+08:00

Personally, I think the poem is a bit of an old tale, but I had fun playing around with spaces trying to create a visual effect.

Broken Lines

We were so clearly defined:      we loved;
and      the goal – till death,   together
down this road      everyone calls life.
No one told   us, there    would be forks,
detours, sidetracks, shortcuts,   scenic
distractions –    so many       ways to go
so many ways      to get             lost;
no one      said, there might be sections
closed    because       of construction or
accidents    or simply      (No Thru Road)
because     the road leads      to nowhere
except to an edge of cliff that looks down
to a     wide open    ocean    with no way
to get to the beach.   We thought we could
go on    forever the day          we left
with cans   dragging,rattling    behind us
and our families        and friends waving
goodbye,     wishing         us happiness;
we thought      that was all     we needed
for fuel –- good luck --   we took no map
because       we wanted an       adventure
but   the     car        b r o k e down
and neither of us   wanted    to get out
to push,      as if    blame would haul us
back but all      it did     was put us to
the side   of the road. I sat on the curb
looking at   the broken      painted lines
of this road, while you sat in     the car
waiting for the engines    to cool off.

Inspired by HVP's photo "Park Between The Lines"

Submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 49.

It's the cost we're thinking about

2011-07-17T20:39:00.001+08:00

***

I think we need a new ladder

hear that rattle, I think
something is loose,
a screw

     that needs tightening
     get the screwdriver
     out of the toolbox

under the leaky
kitchen sink?

     not rusted, is it?

the screw or the
screwdriver?

     it's just a screw
     -- see it

remember the stool
you said you could fix?
just a nail, you said

     and a weak leg,
     don't forget it
     was the leg that broke

when grandma sat,
grandma broke
her hip

     and there, see
     feel it, it's done
     screwed tight
     no more rattling
     not even a creak
     step on it, try

not using it
and not arguing
getting a new one
over a screw.

(Inspired by HVP's photo "Broken Ladder")

Submitted for Poetry Potluck Monday Week 44

For once, take the stairs instead

2011-07-15T23:04:00.006+08:00

--

When the escalator is about to break down

At first it's just little shakes
at unpredictable intervals
like someone with Alzheimer's
who keeps forgetting
who he is, what he's doing
and what you are doing
being here with him,
depending on him to take you up

or down;

it brakes with no warning
then turns around, goes
the other way,

and you don't

(won't)

see it coming, the jerk
that will send you tumbling down
its conveyer herd of metal teeth
that comes out row after row --

you'll be ripped to shreds.

***
(Inspired by HVP's photo "Under Construction")

Submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 48

Anything but funny

2011-07-09T18:33:00.009+08:00

Fat Lady Fell

She sits there on the stairs
leading up
to an overhead bridge,

broken plastic bag
by her bare feet,
spilled coffee staining
the steps, worn
pink-green slippers
upturned --
one here
one there

her greasy haired little boy
wordlessly takes a piece
of tissue from the pack
she holds out in her hand;

he wipes her arm with it,
firmly, but gently, as if
trying to coax her into
getting up, but without
hurrying, gently wipes
her arm with the piece
of tissue.

A man standing nearby
throws a glance back
at them and frowns
(sour coffee? It's a hot day,

what time is it
already?)

steps away, joins the crowd
watching, waiting for the bus
out of there.

She sits there staring
at nothing as a steady stream
of office shirts and skirts,
polished shoes and heels
avoided her, squeeze through
the space between her son
and her as they descend
and stand equal spaces apart

at the sheltered bus-stop,
all heads facing one way
watching out for the bus
(where is that damn bus?
Late

late

late).

She sits there as her son
comes back to her, takes
another piece of tissue
held out to him and wipes
her arm with it, the little one
just wipes her arm with it.

***
A Poetry Potluck Monday submission.

e-Wonders

2011-07-05T06:43:00.001+08:00

Thanks to the folks at Promising Poets Poetry Cafe for this award.

The Perfect Poet Award 4 Poets Rally Week 47

This poem is something I wrote a while back, it's just how I feel when I post my work on the web. :)

Electronic

With each post
she deposits
a little bit
of herself

and distributes it
to all the world's
browsers
linking in,

connecting
to her space
reading
what's on her
mind.

Every hour
she logs in
to see
what everyone
thinks of it.

++++

I accept this award with gratitude. Thanks to those who voted for me.

I would like to nominate Elaine Danforth, zenmirror and dsnake for the Perfect Poet Award Week 48.

Really meant to, but...

2011-06-30T21:42:00.003+08:00

Parting ways

Never learned the art
of saying goodbye
so you just sat watching
trying not to whine
as your friends leave
one after another,
giving their reasons (

it's late

I've got work tomorrow,
I've got another date
with another group
of friends. Baby's waiting

for me

) and not liking any
of it; reluctantly,
you accept
that it's okay

              sad smile

              see you next time

      when

if

and smile at your shared vision
of another gathering
everyone means to make true

if time allows; still
in the moment,

                  when

gently interupted
by a waiter asking
if you would like
another cup of tea,
you realise, you

really

must be going too.

***
This poem was in part provoked by Sxethang's photo "Plenty of Seats".

Submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 47.

Fragment or fractured?

2011-06-23T21:41:00.001+08:00

Recalling a shade

Kicked a rusty paint can
while walking
through a shortcut:

it rolled
sideways
clattering down
the path,

meandered

down to the grassy patch
where our house once stood;

nothing is left except for
a pile of wooden legs
from a broken chair
and a scattering of dull
emerald shards from
a window pane.

Apple white --
that's his favorite color;

it doesn't work
for the walls,
gives the walls
the light shade of

green apples,
the kind that makes
your teeth ache
with its citric juices.

I've forgotten why
my dad liked
apples (and apple-
white)

so much. I kicked it
again and it broke,
showering little
rusty pieces all
over my shoe;

there'll be a road going
through this place next year,
no one will remember
there was a house here.

(Idea for this piece from HVP's photo "Real Life Grunge")

Childhood memories of playing with sand

2011-06-18T08:05:00.001+08:00

Sand Kingdom

Coarse sand on our play
pretend beach, little

grains that
fall in heavy clumps
through our soft fingers,

we scooped them up
with sun-yellow spades
and packed them into
pails of danger red;

we worked, sweat
on our backs and necks,
digging, molding walls,
bases and towers
under the monkey bars
and swings; over

and over, we packed
and overturned mounds
to build fortresses
and castles;

but as you were stabbing
murder holes with a twig,
an entire tower collapsed.

“Make it again!”

and I did; another wall
crumpled under the sun.
It's all falling apart

but we didn't stop, we
kept at it until the sun left
pink and orange ribbons
on the horizon, until

our mother hollered for us
from the window above
our crumpling kingdom
“come home now!”

Idea for this came out of HVP's photo "Colors of Summer"

Submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 46.

Wrecks

2011-06-17T21:23:00.001+08:00

Lookout

Piles of broken
bricks and metal
beams, smokey
remnants of a dead
fire, rusted

pieces sticking
out pleading for
one more chance
to be useful; one

ash-white dove
perched atop
a twisted
fire escape ladder

watches the skies
for hawks.

Inspired by Sxethang's photo "Upstairs Lookout".

House reptile

2011-06-14T06:17:00.001+08:00

Gecko

spotted
naked on the wall;

I take it you've
caught the flies
last night; devoured
them blue and green
whole shell, wings
and all; no

thanks for the mess.

tsk tsk tsk

Hive

2011-06-13T21:24:00.004+08:00

Hive mentality

We are a hive; we live
in tall crowded towers
with many other
worker bees
serving a queen
we call Necessities.
We move in swarms
every morning to work,
every evening to shops
for supplies, then home
to rest, recharge
for the labors to come.
We do not question
life: we slave
for the good of the hive.

This is my contribution for Poetry Potluck Monday at Jingle Poetry.

edit1: changed the poem.

Where did it go?

2011-06-12T15:52:00.004+08:00

Bee/wasp

It's a bee in my room
or was it a wasp?

I'm confused,
you all look the same,
all i see is the yellow
and black lines

of yellow and black
yellow black yellow
and black lines;
buzzing machine

blades beating against
the florescent light,

now, where did you go?

(I did in fact spend quite a while looking for that bee/wasp that was in my room, overturning pillows and blankets, beating the shirts that were hung by the door. I did open the windows, but I had to be sure it wasn't still hiding somewhere. It looked dangerous. Probably was a wasp.)

a bad apple

2011-06-10T06:26:00.001+08:00

why can't we discard a bad friend
like we discard a bad apple --

(into the garbage
with the bad eggs and bad ham

instead of making excuses
: it's still red
: it's still sweet
: it still has a good side)

holes, entrances to a twisted
maze tunneling to the core;

a worm rears its pink head
mocking us when we try to be polite,
then burrows back into the flesh
and spits out the seeds.

Locked

2011-06-04T20:55:00.005+08:00

if you have a secret,
would you share it
with me,

it's a reasonable question
i think

your careful scribbles under the
amber bedside lamp,
i didn't mean to
but i caught you writing

saw you throw it into a drawer
took out sense and sensibility

that boring stuff
i pretended i was just too tired

do you still want the light
is it ok if i switch the one
on my side off

will it be too dark

in the morning
i gave the drawer a tug

it's lock says it all

(Inspired by Sxethang's photo "Lock it up")

Submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 45.

Why life, although similiar, is not as fun as puzzle games.

2011-06-04T18:06:00.021+08:00

Settled Pools of Rainwater Swirling with Rainbows

Present to me a puzzle layout made of mud
and water, how to get from here to home,
before the dark clouds gather --

a step
this way, a zag that
way, one step
to the right,
an inch to the
left; yet despite tactics
and care, I nearly slipped

on the edge
of a clear one over there --

but fortune blessed--

I stopped myself
after an awkward dance,
posing for a moment
like an odd palm. Frozen

in this lesson. I've learnt.
Lightly on a leaf.
Surely on a rocky bit.

Thought I finally had it down
until that last step – one more

step
to the tarmac.

Toe and all into the mire,
muck up to the laces,
pants half ruined,
splattered silt everywhere;

this is where I should
give up, reload
to get all my stars

but there's no going back,
no undo, no restart.

(Inspired by HVP's photo "Reflections")

KNHFSD8SY5DU

As if my name doesn't sound emo enough...

2011-06-04T17:27:00.001+08:00

Someone mentioned that me and someone else seem to like black for our blogs. To be honest, that black scheme was a tad bit too dark. So maybe this is a little less gloomy.

Typical...

2011-06-03T07:25:00.002+08:00

Forgot to eat
until hunger pulled me
from my sleep

went down to the bakery
hoping to hook
a donut or two

all I got was holes

forgot it was tuesday
they're closed

(Inspired by Sxethang's photo "Disappointment")

Upon seeing fallen leaves

2011-06-02T21:32:00.001+08:00

so much dead leaves fallen
after a storm

dear tree, is this why
you reach your arms
skyward

dare the thundering clouds
shake against the razor winds

risk your self being struck

and split
down the middle
by Zeus' bright spear

after an assault
by the hammering rain

the sun crowns you
victorious
and you are dressed
in bright verdant scales,
and at your feet
a halo of gold
from yellow and brown.

A line in the sky

2011-05-14T16:55:00.000+08:00

I saw no jet,
only the faint white scar where it passed,
like a fleeing thought
streaking across
the infinite ceiling in my head

and then lost.

(Inspired by HVP's photo.)

Rock embedded on the sandy beach

2011-05-09T16:58:00.000+08:00

Brave it, rough rock
upon the beach
where the waves beat
smash
and crash
until the face that resists
is smoothed
and restless water
that rise
and fall with the tide
run over
pull away
like silk against skin.

(Inspired by HVP's photo)

How I Damage Myself

2011-04-28T20:04:00.000+08:00

(Originally posted at Joeuser.com blogs on 21 June 2008.)

When I started writing again a couple of years back, stuff just sort of flowed out of me like water. There was no effort and it was a joy to write, poems, stories, whatever.

In my attempts to do well and to impress more people, I might have caused an injury to my own creative spirit.

About two years ago, I embarked on a quest to get my poems published. Knowing next to nothing about the standards required, I sent a batch off to a couple of online poetry journal sites (and I don't mean poetry.com).

They were promptly rejected.

I wasn't exactly surprised. I wasn't that naive to think that it can all happen for me overnight.

Actually the rejection letters didn't make me feel bad or even discouraged but they made me even more determined to better my craft.

So, I bought a lot of poetry books, read all I can from books and online poetry sites. I wrote stuff and put some of that through some honest no-holds barred critique. I really felt like I learnt a lot and improved quite a bit too when I was doing that.

Every couple of months, I was sending stuff off to online poetry journals. All of them were rejected. And yet with all this, it was not the rejections that hurt me. Instead of taking things at proper pace, I started really pushing it. I gave myself datelines, and forced myself to do writing exercises and "assignments" which looking back now, is a good way to make something very unenjoyable.

I think that's when I tore something, like an athlete might tear a ligament overdoing it.

In the end, the work produced had no heart. A lot of the work I did started looking forced. And then I just don't want to write at all. All this because I wanted so much to do well and get accepted / published / etc.

I have no doubt I will go back to it again. I hope I will not make the same mistakes in pace and attitude again.

Excuses

2009-05-17T11:25:00.000+08:00

Thunder rumbled this morning,
rain tap dancing on the black-tar
streets below. I was going to
mop the floor,
do some laundry,
run out the door, get some groceries --
but there was no sunrise;

so much for a day at the beach,
someone must be sighing.

Does it make it a better day
for doing housework?

Grumbling thunder, rain tap
tapping against the windows.

I don't think so.

storm

2009-05-16T18:09:00.000+08:00

4.59pm

In the office pantry, we watch
from 13 floors up, and curse
at the bloated clouds: fat
gray rams tramping on the edge
of the blue horizon, waiting
for us to leave the office.

6.30pm

The rain smacks down, warm
like globs of spit; the wind
steers them sideways to get
at us under our umbrellas;
shoes land in unexpected puddles,
pickling feet in sweat and slush.

7.30pm

Storm drains cough and sputter; water
winds through constipated traffic;
flower brushes, tropic palms,
young saplings fall over
and drown; and the rain drops
dance and skips on their floating limps.

Confess

2009-05-08T11:26:00.000+08:00

I broke it.

But I wish someone else did --
It's got to be that guy
who used it before me.

Quick! get the superglue
or some sticky tape!
Maybe I can fix the damn thing
before it's found out.

Too late!
A passing witness sees
the two pieces,
"what happened to this?"

Lips flap like a tent
giving way to wind;
words sputter out:
excuses --
useless --
sentences can't come
together, make sense,
fast enough.

I'm caught.
It was me.

I broke it.

Caretaker

2009-02-01T12:05:00.000+08:00

the caretaker

irrelevant, yet

as necessary as
a shredder, or
a coffee maker

being polite, you refer
to him as “uncle”
only because you

don’t know his name
and you don’t care to

after all, he is not
a part of the work
you do

until something left
on the desk last night
goes missing the next morning

Strangers

2009-01-18T10:35:00.000+08:00

Strangers

We had been roommates
for five peaceful years;
we never argued
or crossed lines;
we avoided conflicts
by avoiding words.

On her last day they passed
a Hallmark card around;
when it came to me,
a blank space amongst the squibbles
of cheery signatures waited,
anticipating something shared
and memorable.

I thought for a while
and signed my name.

E

2008-10-20T08:58:00.000+08:00

Electronic

With each post
she deposits
a little bit
of herself

and distributes it
to all the world's
browsers
linking in,

connecting
to her space
reading
what's on her
mind.

Every hour
she logs in
to see
what everyone
thinks of it.

Grave

2008-10-12T08:56:00.000+08:00

grave

Long shadows
from an ancient
willow tree fall
across the
stone that bears

your name,
the day that you
were born,
the day that you
died,
and the years
that you lived.

But the stone
bears no scars
of the time
that drags on
after the years
that you had gone

that you were missed.

Woods

2008-10-07T08:56:00.000+08:00

Sanctuary

This place is in my head when I am in a crowd
going to work, or on a noisy street where
the video store and the CD shop are competing
for passing eyes and ears,

when I'm breathing in the 8 am traffic
or braving the hot rain coming back from lunch
or squeezing into a lift full of impatient colleagues,

I am thinking of a sunny place,
sitting under a shade of green trees
and having a picnic.

Tears

2008-09-29T09:09:00.000+08:00

Tears

Makes me think of the ocean,

the salty smell
saturating the air
drowning it;

how I can only walk
alongside of it

because I can't swim.

It's the under-currents
that move the waves;
it's not really the wind
like some people might think.

It takes a lot to swim
against those
under-currents.

I'm better off here
safe on the beach,
watching the waves,
breathing in the salt.

Uncle

2008-09-23T09:15:00.000+08:00

irrelevant,

yet as necessary
as a shredder, or
a coffee maker

being polite, you refer
to me as “uncle”
only because you don’t
know my name

and you don’t care to

after all, I am not a part
of the work you do

unless something left behind
on the desk last night has gone
missing the next morning

Common decency

2008-09-22T09:06:00.000+08:00

You say you are often

shocked

by all
the unkindness
you see in the world.

But to the boy
who held
the lift doors

open

for you

while you fumbled around
for your keys
and hollered for your husband
who was picking leaves off
his freshly polished wrx,

you did not even have
the decency
to thank him
for waiting.

Dinner?

2008-09-22T08:58:00.000+08:00

not coming
for dinner?

last year
I said no

I gave
the same answer
for the year
before

and the year
before that

and the year
before that,
was when I was soft
gave in
and ate
in regret

let's just say
it wasn't the cooking
it was the cook

and what the cook said
about the way I walked
the way I talked,
what I was wearing,
that my hair
was too
short
and how
it was all
my mother's
fault

and that
was the end of it
and I will never
regret saying
no
not this year
not the next
not ever

What the old lady on a bus told me

2007-07-12T08:36:00.000+08:00

What the old lady on a bus told me

This is my long ride
back to prison.

There's this man
I’ve lived with
for fifteen years.

See this little
Buddha pendant
I wear?

This is all that I have.

This is my faith.
I keep with me
all the time now.
Because of him.

One day it had
gone missing
from my dressing table;
I went into the kitchen
and found him
playing with it;

when I asked for it back,
he stomped on it, spat
on it and flunked it out
the window;

I told him,
Buddha never did
any harm to him;
I said, he can curse
and swear at me
all he wants but
Buddha
his rage; I said,
he should leave
Buddha
out of his unhappiness.

He told me to go jump
off the top floor
balcony. I told him
to go jump off
the balcony himself;
I promised him:

I’ll follow.

I am afraid.
I am not
afraid of him.
I am afraid
of what he
does to me.

In Photographs

2007-07-09T08:42:00.000+08:00

In Photographs

We stand with backs straight,
our arms dead by our sides,
faces forward, eyes forward,
still as candles in a row.

Ten or fifteen years from
now, you will not be able
to tell that Fifth Aunt
is not on talking terms
with First Uncle; you will
not be able to tell how
First Aunt is in the kitchen
playing up a stormy symphony
with pots and pans, because
without invitation or permission,
her son brought home a new
girlfriend who is
white
blue eyes with
light straw brown
hair
to an “all family” affair;

You will not be able to tell
from this photograph that
there is a fuss over who
should sit next to Great
Grandfather, a place
reserved for favorites
of which he had none;
in this photograph,
everyone is in here
because this is family.

Anything below a dollar

2007-06-10T08:38:00.000+08:00

Anything below a dollar

A fifty-cent coin lies
in a shallow drain
dipped in spit, mud
and cigarette butts;

a ten-cent coin fallen
between a water pipe
and wall grows mossy
blue and green and dull;

a five-cent coin sinks
to the bottom of a
toilet bowl where flushes
will never flush it away;

those who lost them say
it’s no big deal, not worth
the trouble of rescuing
from the disgusting places
of filth, disease,
decomposition.

It’s far more common to see:
one-cent copper colored coins
lying on a clean street,
trampled on unnoticed;

even if they have been noticed,
at the instant of recognition
for how little they represent,
they are walked over,
passed over, not worth
any kind of trouble at all.

Lunch

2007-06-08T08:40:00.000+08:00

Lunch

Unfinished lines
tired old topics

fractured facts
and skewed views

we stare
down

at our food,
unable
to think of

anything else
to share
other than

gossip
as vicious as
the curry is spicy.

The Old Teacher

2007-05-31T08:46:00.000+08:00

The Old Teacher

She smelled of sour plums and pressed flowers;
sweat beads form like dew on her forehead;
with a white laced hanky, she would wipe them
off every time before they start to roll;
she walked along the rows of seated children,
her eyes scanning the horizon of the mischievous
heads bowing over their opened texts as they read.

Twenty years later, she’s sitting in a train;
her black hair is now a tangle of gray curls;
it’s still the same eyes, it’s still the same
pit bull jaws, still the same rosewater
perfume; one wonders if her knobby hands
are still dangerous with a wooden ruler.

Moving In

2007-05-31T08:39:00.000+08:00

Moving In

Apple-green tiles and
vanilla cream walls;
a coat of white wash
was all we could afford;

There’s a wrinkled brown hide
(what he calls a “sofa”)
and a white marble slab
(“coffee table”)
on rust-eaten legs
in the living room;

there’s a teakwood carcass
(“dining table”)
painted grizzly brown
and polished to shine
blocking half the way
to the master bedroom.

And the matching chairs?
Don’t ask.

No. 5 Cairnhill Road

2007-05-16T10:53:00.000+08:00

No. 5 Cairnhill Road

It’s not even their house, it’s just
“temporary”; Father calls it home;
Mother disagrees by not nodding;
Child just wants to take her toys
out of the box and play house.

When a cloud passes in front of
the sun and there’s a smell of a wet
storm in the breeze; when all is dim
in shadow for a while, Child pauses,
suddenly realizes: she’s all by herself

Ask your father

2007-04-23T11:01:00.000+08:00

Ask your father:

when he is coming home,

if he is coming home,
for dinner.

Go on.

Ask your father for me, before he slips right out the door --
"Going out for a while" like he always does near the end
of the month when my market purse is nearly empty
and the freezer stores more air than meat.

Ask your father if he'll be back for dinner tonight --
I'm sick of his dead eyes answering for him,
of getting the same lazy responses every time:
the maybe's and maybe not's, and the I-don't-know's.

So, what did he say?

He won't be back till after dinner?
He'll be late and don't wait up?

That bastard,

I've already defrosted the chicken.

Hive

2007-04-08T09:18:00.000+08:00

Hive mentality

We are a hive; we live
in tall crowded towers
with many other
worker bees;
our queen is necessity.
We move in swarms
every morning to work,
every evening to shops
for supplies, then home
to rest, recharge
for the labors to come.
We do not question
life: we slave
for the good of the hive.

Being told to act natural

2006-11-04T09:50:00.000+08:00

Being told to act natural

A handshake;
a smile,
not too wide;
say a few kind words
to the camera;
remember
to mean what you say,
and hold back the tide of vomit
rising from your disassembled ego.

If something slips out somehow,
play it like that toy 9mm
in the top drawer of your desk,
the one with the rubber bullets
that won’t hurt, or kill anyone.
They bounce off balding heads,
just like the things you wanted to say.

Bright Young Spark

2006-08-01T08:51:00.000+08:00

There is no doubt
that your ideas are wonderful
and if executed, will make
the world ideal. However,

the world will not commit
to ideas that require ideal
morals and ideally,
selfless individuals
who will execute them.

“Why not? Why not?” You demanded
an explanation, why cannot. You waved
your hands about, frantic like the wings
of a housefly. You sighed and paced
restlessly like a mosquito
in search of stagnant ponds
devoid of predators.

I was indifferent, so you forced
a bookmark in between a closed book,
and laughed.

Jack

2006-04-23T11:22:00.000+08:00

Modes of Jack's existence

During the day, Jack sits behind a newspaper, a desk, a coffee cup,
office worker props and a calendar he bought himself for Christmas.
There are times at work, he thinks he’s invisible
but he’s all too noticeable when his eyes wander too low
while talking to the boss’s personal assistant, or if
he thought he could slip off early to lunch, or have tea
at McDonald’s. During the meeting, they talk over his head;

he realizes he’s usually invisible there. He sits back,
twirls his pen over an idle notepad. No one asks
for his opinion
regarding his paper tray and what goes in it; then the meeting
ends on a hanging question as the answer dies
of asphyxiation.

At the day’s end, he turns visible enough for a colleague to ask
if he would like to join them for a drink at the pub where underaged girls
puke their guts out in toilets with black marble floors and older men
pretend they still got it. So while he sits there with them
with his 20-something face and his 30-something heart,
his 40-something mind just can’t keep up,
his jokes come too late, too inappropriate;
and it won’t take long before they make him invisible again.

Time

2006-04-20T11:23:00.000+08:00

Grandfather is sitting in his rocking chair
asking for the time again. Little Sally,
only nine, is flustered, her play
interrupted. She’s tired of reminding
an old man with a broken hip,
a severed mind, what time it is.

If he asks again (she warns him),
she is going to go play somewhere else
and leave him by himself.

Grandfather looks at her, his eyes
salty. She resumes talking to her dolls;
neglecting the dry old man whose gaze
wanders back to the clock on the wall.

“What time is it?” he asks. Little Sally

sighs; almost shouts, “It’s three
twenty! Three. Twenty. P.M. Why do you
keep asking? Are you going somewhere?”

Grandfather rubs his wrists; he cannot say.

Key Hole

2006-04-10T11:20:00.000+08:00

Key Hole

The wind whispers sounds through
a keyhole like someone sympathizing
with his troubles or mocking him;
one eye catches that breeze
as it searches the room,
unable to touch the woman
sobbing at her dresser.

Glass shards on the floor
from a picture flunk far
across the room,
the corner of a wedding photograph
lying faced down;
he can see the date when
it was taken; the pencil lines say
1995 is fading, blurred by too much handling
before it was imprisoned in a frame,
the children’s present for their anniversary.

It was his fault, not locking the door.
He had the key in, but he forgot to turn it.
She walked in, finding him and his secretary
on the guestroom bed, doing stuff
she refused him last evening.

Finally, he hears creak of a chair, he sees
her face for a moment (guilt stabs
his chest for moment before he could
put up a shield of justifications)
as she comes to the door. She inserts
a key into the keyhole, not turning it
just letting it sit there, so that
not even his eyes can touch her again.

Road Trip

2006-04-02T12:18:00.000+08:00

Road trip

We did not get a red car as promised
but it is fine, blue is our favorite color.
Navy blue, the color that children like
for stormy seas or heavy rain.

It is a good sign, you said. This day
everything is good. I do not
have to pretend to smile. You do not
have to pretend to be kind.

You turn the key, igniting the fuel for our escape;
I am in the passenger seat, sawing off chains
that bind me to a life across some great sea.

We burn the roads like the sun had burnt
our backs, breaking tarmac like the desert heat
that had crinkled our faces and cracked our lips.

If only our road trip can last forever;
just you in the driver’s seat, and me,
enjoying the breeze, watching
the storm clouds close over the skies
as the last sun beams reach down
before they drown.

The stuff of life

2006-01-15T09:53:00.000+08:00

Chromosomes

If you unravel the script of life
that nature had so carefully wound,
you can stretch it like a string
to the moon and back, three times,
and tie a big bow
with the remaining slack.

We read their banding patterns,
the work of giemsa stain trapped
between the molecules of the chain,
and see homely things in the 23 pairs –-
20s look like teddy bears, 19s look like
bow ties and 3s are tall guys with blond hair.

We play 'spot-the-difference'
under the lenses; scrutinize
each spread from cell to cell
across microscopic pastures.

But we can never read into those bands --

like comparing bibles of different editions;
judging by thickness, white spaces,
and where the indexes are placed,
to say, “This bible is complete,
and the same as the previous,”
from a hundred meters away.

Every night we go to sleep and dream
of dining on bizarrely striped spaghetti.

Subtle mean

2005-11-27T10:00:00.000+08:00

Subtle Mean

I hate it when she grins at me like that --
I hate her teeth, they are tiny,
numerous and pointy
like those in the mouth of a piranha.

I’d imagine they are very efficient
in tearing the meat off my bones.

I stretched my lips in the direction of a smile.

“So what you are doing nowadays”, she asked,
smacking her words, “Are you happy where you are?”
She laughed, sounding like a C note being played
repeatedly on an broken piano. I answered her,

“Yes. I am happy.
Much happier.”

I regretted answering at all.

“Has the moon set on the horizon,
for you and your friend Henry?”
she jabbed, a snub in the form
of a question, a private joke
within the boundaries of small talk;

just to see how I’d react to the name,
not the question.

“It is, as it is.
The matter is closed,” I answered
an answer meaning, as much
as the question, nothing.

She grinned again,
her pointy little ivories
winking.

Patient

2005-11-26T19:11:00.000+08:00

I never saw the patient,
only her room,

a sterile concrete cube,
with a single window
dressed in ghost-pale curtains
to prevent too much sunlight visiting,

a single bed,
the rippled sheets,
broken lines outlining
where she slept;

her lunch cooling on a tray,
unfinished; a cup of water
beside a coloring book,
stagnating.

A box of crayons,
red and green missing,
lay flat on the table
by the bed. There,

I found what I came for:

her blood. I grabbed
the tubes, then walked –-
ran –-
down to the lab.

“Process this one right away”,
I told the white coats
running the blood work,
“it belongs to a child.”

My supervisor tapped her finger
on a stack of case sheets,
“So is this one. Just
put hers in
like the rest.”

Head problems

2005-11-05T12:01:00.000+08:00

Major headache version

The Angry Prisoner

Like an angry prisoner
locked up in a cell
He rattles at the gate
and tears up the bed.

He keeps me from writing,
his screaming cripples me;
he bites on every nerve,
and chews on every vein.

He claws against the walls
that hold him within
until his nails are jagged,
his fingers bleeding.

I want him released,
but I don’t have the key.
The prisoner swells in pain,
his suffering becomes me.

Minor headache version

The Spoilt Child

Like a naughty child
grounded to his room,
he shouts from the window
and jumps on the bed.

I’d like to ignore him,
continue my writing,
but I can feel him
scribbling on the walls.

He stamps his little feet
across the wooden floor.
He throws his toys about,
destroys the color blocks.

I put on some music
and read to him a story,
but at every word or beat
he digs his nails into me.