A Lifetime Problem

At six, the way to school is filled with

construction noises, dust debris like

insolent children on the playgrounds nearby

to remind me that school is a tedious,

tardy, obnoxious place on the island of desolation.

One day, I asked my father for not going to school.

Now thinking of it, I could have asked for

a day of stakes, unlimited side dishes, and

that may have stood a higher chance

beside the impossible, and the harsh

pummelling that comes with my crudeness.

I don’t know what happened in him,

but he looked to the side; moments, I was worried,

thinking what happened to him, perhaps

what happened to me — for just staring

at his skinny, crinkled face. I thought

he’d sent me to my room after school,

to give me the gift of battering, or forbid me

to eat altogether, for what I said was a sin —

to the rustic upbringing of his disposition.

But, he took a breathe; I saw his rib

bursting from his overstretched shirt,

and no signs of anger in him. He spoke,

and asked me whether I want to speak

English and Chinese really well;

I said yes, for I had a talent — the child

naiveté. “Then go to school,” and he points

to the workers in yellow hats, reflecting the

magnificent sun rays that the day gives,

shining brightly from the iris of my eyes.

“Or you will end up like them.”

Childishly, I nodded; knowing nothing

different between me and the worker,

thinking we are all humans, and he can

speak. Perhaps read and write. So I

moved forward, not realising the differences. 

To this day, I can still remember how vivid

the scene was; a pouring of water

over my mind, and how a knock twelve-years ago

is now a departure for me: on the tarmac

road then, through the air now.

Sailing Adrift From the Moon

Once upon a time, a fisherman asks,

in the midst of fishing at night, dusk abounds, alas,

the sea, why it recites its hymns to the

fluctuations of the moonlight, why it

turns down its volume at night.

Then, the waves went raging, and the fisherman

hanged onto his boat. He went sailing,

slashing back-and-forth, surreptitiously seeking

the sanctuary as he moves on the unforeseen

journey, on such quiet, perhaps too peaceful a night.

Pounded onto a pool of rocks, he found himself

ceasing, shuddering to only an immediate halt, and

he took a breathe to feel a relief — in his

abrupt journey. He is now afraid to ask the question

again, for he thought it was punishment from Poseidon himself.

The fear did not last long. The dark mist dissipates,

revealing the long-awaited moonshine. He stared

into the globular light; his empty-minded eyes

reveal how he knows everything is a staged voyage

in a bag of tricks — to fool people of its supposed exhilaration.

Then, fortuitously, the fish, shells, pure rocks of virtuous heritages

rush their ways into his near-torn fishing net, and

stayed there for as long as he gasped for air,

like a butterfly trying to escape the dust in daylight —

in the city where it lives in. Only now entrapped for a long time.

Then, the waves went raging, and the fisherman again

hanged onto his boat. He went sailing,

only now sailing slowly, adrift in stasis, and in

the sanctuary that was unforeseen in his narrow mind.

But tonight is all, perhaps, too peaceful a night;

So he didn’t question the serendipity,

and let go of his preys, in much of a hurry,

for he knows he is sailing adrift because of the moon.

And he signed a quick, albeit tender gratitude to the enlivened night.

Thereafter, his ardent question never plagued him again.

The Little Treasure from a Little Mind

I stood on the balcony of my mind       The

Prospect of waiting put me       And me only

On my journey to wish       A dream

That never ceases to fuel itself

Living in a pool of hawthorn encased by a treasure box

From my childhood       In it lives a story that

Should be concealed for years       That should not be opened

A painful moment       Now the years of yearning

Goes with the wind that blew by       I witness it fly

Fly       Fly with the wind So

I opened the box       To find what I hoped for years ago

The heavy chassis uplifts       Reveals

Pink       Red       Flowers that greeted my presence

Fragrance in the air       Supremacy reigns the room

With a quiet hiss of       “hi there”       Enough I thought

To pull the wreckages of my heart      Back together again

But in it is a letter        From myself       A tiny reminder in a tiny package
My ugly handwriting that I first cannot decipher
A cryptic clue to my own disposition

But with such quietude       What a tranquility I must’ve been in
No matter how cryptic I was still young
I should dismiss it I thought

But something reached me       “Read it”       Strong pulses to urge me
So I read       Appreciate the hawthorn       It says
But not too long       Just long enough to find the woods charming
Short enough to stand without fatigues
Then to find my way back to the reality       And bargain with the Fates
For a huge gift in the eventful course
      The latter I already knew to be the commanding truth

Now I am wrong       Now I am pulled back to life
Again       To greet time To bid farewell
And suffer in them       Be choked by them
A course that pettiness is needed more than ever

But now       From time to time
I still see the hawthorn in my mind       How it still is so vivacious
And now I know the reason why why the pink the red still blooms
And why the angel       Saying “hi there”       Dancing to her own rhythms
Appears again and again       From time to time

It all is a quiet godsend in itself

The Smell in the Car

It was a compact, silver-ridden, four-wheeled

monster; a beast to the eyes of a five-year-old,

who was also carsick easily,

and runs faster than even my mighty father.

The sanguine leather seat cover

stitched right down the middle of each oblong

cover, sheens a fainting colour

Into the thin air in the car. I didn’t know

how to oblige by the dictation

of catching colours, and

neither did I know why the leather smells

funny during summer, sad during winter.

I just kept my breathes tight, squeezing them,

like sewing a loosen bag of crops during

Harvest season, and I know I should not

ask my macilent father on why his car

smelled the way it did. I knew I would be up

for lectures, or some real beatings if he snaps.

Now, unlike the seats, the smells scintillate

even to this day, where my father

grows more taut, more bubbly in comparison,

And I cannot forget how the smell enthrals

me, haunts me, then warms me to

make me find comfort, making me tuck squirt

suavely in my own pain. And I, now caught in the stasis

of my own reveries and memories, can now

resort myself to the next day, without the smells,

the car, and my loquacious father. In tranquil.

The Sad Life of A Cuckoo

A clear chirp. The morning chooses to

suffocate itself in a maelstrom of

thickened, but mostly thinned, air.

A cuckoo meets itself in the midst of fields,

a silent chuckle — too early in the morning,

farmers are not awake. The lucid sound,

travels to the farthest of farmland

to remind himself that the highway ahead

is his own enfer. The sad, lonely reminder

that he owns the place. An unwavering

chirp, again and again, strikes the imbalance

that the ripened grains accidentally trigger.

A clear chip, continually resounds itself

until the end of day, reminding people the

sad life of a cuckoo. Yet nothing echoes.

Befriending a Leopard

I walked on a chilly, slow road everyday.

Pace usually shudders to halts.

Why? — Waiting for surprises to hit me,

while expecting nothing but cool,

invisible flames roaring into my body.

Not eroding me. Though that never happens.

Sometimes, the road can be too placid

to accept a man, or a woman,

weeps, or laughs. Like a leopard,

it enthrals me to break off from the tangents

that can stop me.

It used to chase me. Yet he would

not come close; not close to

biting me. His wintriness

bites the air; I cry when the pain

of the frostbite eats into my flesh.

But tears freeze into droplets in mid-air,

supplanting the filigree, on the

ragged piece of cloth he carries along.

But, time passed. He started to turn

warmer, though still enough to bite.

But he is more mild. He is more caring.

Now sees me with no indifference.

Though the dense air does reminisce

the way that he used to stare at me,

he — the dandelion — grows fluffy

around me. Maybe touch is too true.

Maybe too fake.

But this is enough for a friend, like him;

for the friend who saw me. And sees me.

Adjoining Way

The stupor air always lends itself

to extend the long mile

I walk every day to bus stop

To the lengthening mile,

I always treaded my steps with care,

for even the slightest misstep can make

my grandmother, who sees me

from the balcony in metres high

above me, chatter or blare

at her star’s face.

Choirs of birds

clears the cold,

sleeted isle of enclosed doors,

and thaw the frozen bulbs of tears.

The brick-paved ground

cuddles in solaces,

and entwine themselves

with a deep, unspoken word. I knelt,

to feel its grace again,

only to find weeps will not

give back the golden,

brittle stares at the mirror.

The adjoining way, now silent

without chatters.

Eulogy to a Past

Loquacious sun

retelling stories to the

land, one after one, again

and again, never feeling tired

One day, a man traverses

through a mystical land

of only two flowers,

One is a reserved bud, a shy,

terse flower, speaking itself

some monologues

to stay alive

Another is happy,

outwards, unafraid

and chatters of rosaries

Both outside the autumn

field of life, of vitality

Both hurt from the light,

the sun of stricken time

Both leaning outwards

perpetually, standing apart from each other

and never seemed to bear colours

The sun felt tired to retell the story.

A Quiet Day in City

Cars do not work like horses

let alone the car honks

People do not fight over

            frivolous things

Shops are closed

People are at home

talking to their loved ones

or ones they loathe

to resolve their problems

maybe

This day

animals or insects that always seem

to reside to the corners of buildings

to run away from dust and noises

now breathes happily

without grey or black dirt

that dominates the air

Littlest contentment goes

a long way to make me

the most delighted man

on the surface of Earth

Angels flying away in the sky

drawing up love signs

to reveal their joviality

towards such quietude

There may be just a few dancing

jogging

mumbling

But all is worth the quiet day in city

calamity

the day of rest

The Seine at Lavacourt

Fresco. The Seine at Lavacourt

sways with the fiat of the

artist, at his hand, with his

paintbrush.

Reeds. In the centre of the river,

marks the objects where

lives circle around, with their

zeal.

Houses. Where the workers of

the river would entitle

themselves to luxuries, with their

dignity.

Scene. The Seine at Lavacourt

sways with the fiat of the

artist, at His hand, with His

paintbrush.

Clearing the Way for Greatness

After Lee Kuan Yew

The ride was not simple, but ruthless;

for he went without any sound.

He traded his life with an auspice.

Many says he is a collection of braveness

for he leaves his country profound.

The man who remains fearless.

He picked up the paintbrush with graveness,

and draws something that would resound.

He traded his life with an auspice.

But he always remained guileless —

so to afford the cheers when the world astound.

The man who remains fearless.

He would ensure his people with faithfulness,

— he knows his country is not stacks of mound.

He traded his life with an auspice.

When we announced his death; I guess

the skyline drops to clear the way for Greatness:

The man who remains fearless.

He traded his life with an auspice.

Noli Timere

Tribute to my father.

A typical pop song. Begins

a couple of seconds

in the car, a diesel car. How old!

But melody so beautiful, transpiring

notes in the air; but

he only has few hundreds in his

jacket, not enough to even give

himself the clothes he needs.

The life he wants.

Those days, I am not hungry,

not when I hung onto the

fluffy, plump ball of skin boxed

with warmth, and

in there I found my dad, a

reticent, caring, positive figure

for me to learn.

Noli timere, he says

while pointing to the distant buildings

where he works at, to assure me that

the magic of life will take me

to the castle in the sky, the blue, blue expanse of dreams.

Now I live without his embrace. Not in castle in the sky.

But I see the truth to the phrase. Noli timere,

ego sum fortissimus vita.

Early Six o’ Clock In the Morning

Loud clinks on the kitchen table, that must be

the tines waving endlessly on the plaid that

I see whenever I come home; that could be, also,

the ceaseless dancing from the cleavers, which

my mother watches, so intensely, as the luckiest

charm that could bless her this morning. A dream

did not end yet, but sounds woke me, so I woke up

with Mozart’s eagerness to compose the next godsend.

However, for I not have to wake up, I see

every incentive to stay in bed and tucking

into the warmth I have gathered all night

without ever perceiving. A warm bed that makes sense.

But I cannot afford to hide inside the warmth, just like

a post-hibernating bear cannot withstand to lose

the opportunities of feeding; there must be a

frozen view for me somewhere. Not just the warmth.

So, to leave the warmth is my first step. And in (early)

six o’ clock in the morning. To what?

To dance with the forks and cleavers, for sure.

I am just trying to write a love story

I am just trying to write a love story

but out of ideas for one, because love

is an intertwining series of conversations,

times together, and some magic formula with

sugars and salts. Many of them. Mixed.

But then I went to the aquarium, as planned,

to meet a friend from the past, forgetting the story. Surprisingly,

five-hundred people were there with me, on an otherwise

quiet, pleasant afternoon. I want nothing

more than some time to catch up on

old things. So, there I was: trying to suffuse

myself through the crowd, thinking that

I need many, many lubricants to sift through the

tough crowd. The breathes, the air, so suffocating,

but yet so invigorating. The fish above me, swimming

through the water currents, forgetting its

last moments, and sees nothing but fresh views of

people — like a person who, few seconds ago, tries to pickpocket?

Now a clean man, an ordinary man.

But that is just it! Is love not

just a series of greys, some faint-hearted reds,

and all pure whites? And all of what causes the

meet of hearts is the wanting for

a story to write. A story to tell later. So salt does not

matter; so sugar does not matter; so

what do you want?

My friend was not there in the aquarium,

figured he left me for my own musings,

for my story to write, starting now.

Flicks of Sand

Fast sprinters, running up to the predetermined

wood block that signifies a great jump,

would enter the air with pride and

land with flicks of sand in the shoes, outside

the sand pit, and on me, the bystander

in witnessing a great leap forward.

I would get sand all over me. I would

stand there, record everyone’s numbers, which

all look like the values of them in

respective of mine. The outlier.

But let us consider a simple case: the sandpit, wooden block,

me, and a metre readily available on the side.

A sunny predisposition. The wind is for me. A good

twenty metres away from the wooden block is

my running block.

                                   I then thrust my arm

                        forwards, lift my leg into the thinned air, striding

             with confidence, and approach closer and closer to

the wooden jumping point. In the air

I see the clear sky, the edges of sandpit, the

warmth of that goal that would force me

to compel my fears. But now I see where

I am about to land. No! No, I can go further, and

             a little more push

                        could get me

                                   farther and farther away from my beginning

                                                and I —

                                                                  I refuse to land.

I am not going to force you

He could be sitting, one moment, in an Utopian setting

that he never expects a seizure. He had that once

when he was on the top of Kilimanjaro.

He did. Although nothing had forced him to have one,

he just had one.

She could be laying back on sofa, trying to

sing to the prenatal baby with her lullabies that

her husband cannot withstand further. Not anticipating it

kicking ceaselessly. It could,

it did.

You could be standing, one day, in a perfectly paved

road that children, adults or elderly can tread on

just as perfectly, and still see a man or woman fall

into the abyss of tearing pain. Scars. Memories with

red stains.

For sure, He did not force those to happen;

those were by chance;

neither did she, nor did you;

just like this line

By chance.

And all are chances.

So I am not going to force you.

Fate shall take us up into the air

Fate shall take us up into the air

Fine, spring, blossoming day with every

bit of clean twigs spiralling up into the air

begging the Goddesses for warmth, air,

hope

and in this scene, I, too, tried to fly up into

the cherry-filled, scented particles that

define my love for this season. Enclosed in darkness,

I see not myself being lifted into the air, and something

drags me onto the ground, so firmly;

but for I am not romantic, or sentimental, I

cannot figure out what the weight is

anchoring me back onto the ground. Afraid,

I sense more traces of unidentifiable fragrances

from an otherwise pleasant scenery outside the darkness;

I then look around me, and suddenly

things prevail; I see twigs coming to life;

thickening into branches; preparing itself for the days to come;

growing, maturing, playing with the Fates

as if an action to disobey

“Naughty, naughty,” they would say

and cease them from growing. They do not care.

        Now I see why the blackness remains around.

        I just need to play along with the game,

        That lasts till the perennial border of life, that which

        takes us to the end.

        And that shall take us up into the air, where things matter.