Sunday, March 29, 2015

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.

Friday, March 27, 2015

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.

Thursday, March 26, 2015

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.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

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.

Monday, March 16, 2015

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,
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.