Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Pen and paper


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,

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.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Hard Lessons I


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.

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Saturday, January 28, 2012




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


Friday, January 20, 2012

Plant language


Leaves fold

at every
curious prod

no matter tip of finger
or drop of rain

or brush of passing
butterfly's wings;

entertain only
kiss of sun
or whispering

everything else --
come together,


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.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

New year, new explorations

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


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.


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.


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!