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.