Tuesday, December 13, 2011

Info Age Troubles


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,

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?


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. :)

Sunday, December 11, 2011

In Parallel


Lines divide the early dusk
into roseate shades;

for miles they run in parallel,
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

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Aftermath process



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.

Saturday, December 3, 2011

Paper findings

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. :)

Monday, November 28, 2011

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)

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Hope you didn't miss it.


11:11:11 11-11-11

“and never again for another hundred years.”

A hundred years ago, no clock
displayed time digitally in
, and no clock displayed dates --

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
pairs of
ones: harmony
in a time of many di

           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.

Sunday, November 6, 2011

Oh the joys of email...


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


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

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.


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.”

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.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

Conversation snapshot


“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.


“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.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Blood toll

Mozzie Party

I crashed the party in the swamp; they buzz,
not enraged like that of bees or wasps,
but delighted, pleased, why, hello!
welcome, we're so glad you're here
and you bought the drinks!


Hovering pins

I'm the piƱata
full of sweet
warm blood

I wear
the blindfold

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

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

Recalling a shade

Kicked a rusty paint can
while walking
through a shortcut:

it rolled


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.

(July 20, 2012) Linked to Meeting at the Bar: The Best of... (dVerse Pub 1st Anniversary celebrations.)

Saturday, October 22, 2011

The army in my house


Cake crumbs

black ant
black ant

ant ant ant ant ant ant Cake

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
        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


ant cleaning feelers, or
taunting human

ant ant ant ant ant ant Cake


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.

Tuesday, October 18, 2011

A manner of definition



Severed blades of grass
blended green
assaults olfactory

a pair of mynahs
partners in life
searching for

grey-wing moths,    
flutter above cut

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

     grass hoppers.


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

Wednesday, October 12, 2011

Tea and sunflower seeds


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.

Sunday, October 9, 2011

I don't mean that in a good way


“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.

Sunday, October 2, 2011

Coffee, that's what I need


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.

Monday, September 26, 2011

Gloom season


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

     brown grit,
  a soup
       of fallen

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.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Where did it go?


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.

Monday, September 19, 2011

Light and sound concert from heaven


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


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.

Monday, September 12, 2011

I had this feeling I was being watched...


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
        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



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.)

Thursday, September 8, 2011

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


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

Saturday, September 3, 2011

(In memory of IPL, a dear friend.)


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.)

Sunday, August 21, 2011

The wonders in a single water drop


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


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.

Monday, August 15, 2011

To The Very End

Still a flower

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

spiral and twirl
a first and last dance,


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.

Friday, August 5, 2011

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


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.


Tuesday, August 2, 2011

Sky watching

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
over me

to see where

so small a thing
in so vast a blue expanse


even smaller
down here

can't help
but smile

as i squint to see

the craft
one man
arms wide

than the birds.

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

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Down that road

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.

Sunday, July 17, 2011

It's the cost we're thinking about


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

     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

Friday, July 15, 2011

For once, take the stairs instead


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


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

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Anything but funny

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

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?



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.

Tuesday, July 5, 2011


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.  :)


With each post
she deposits
a little bit
of herself

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

to her space
what's on her

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.

Thursday, June 30, 2011

Really meant to, but...

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



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

if time allows; still
in the moment,


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


must be going too.

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

 Submitted for Thursday Poets Rally Week 47.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Fragment or fractured?

Recalling a shade

Kicked a rusty paint can
while walking
through a shortcut:

it rolled
clattering down
the path,


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-

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")

Saturday, June 18, 2011

Childhood memories of playing with sand

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.

Friday, June 17, 2011



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".

Tuesday, June 14, 2011

House reptile


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

Monday, June 13, 2011


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.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Where did it go?


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.)

Friday, June 10, 2011

a bad apple

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.

Saturday, June 4, 2011

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

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

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")


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

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.

Friday, June 3, 2011


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")

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Upon seeing fallen leaves

so much dead leaves fallen
after a storm

dear tree, is this why
you reach your arms

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

Saturday, May 28, 2011


That metal sheet you meant
for a project you meant to start
last winter, is lying in the garage.
I was looking at it, wondering
if you still remember what it is
that you wanted to do with it.
Would you notice if I threw it out,
then accused me of discarding
this thing you happily found?
It is your idea waiting for you to start
but it is lying rusting in our garage.

Saturday, May 14, 2011

A line in the sky

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.)

Monday, May 9, 2011

Rock embedded on the sandy beach

Brave it, rough rock
upon the beach
where the waves beat
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)

Thursday, April 28, 2011

How I Damage Myself

(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.